Like A Boss
by Lampito
Summary: Sam's no expert on celestial physiology, but if he didn't know better, he'd say that Cas has a terrible cold. Which is silly, because angels don't get colds, right? Nor, for that matter, do demons. But the real question is, when a supernatural being in an important position of power is out of action, who's going to stand in for the boss?
1. Chapter 1

AAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAARGH! It's a plot bunny!

Here I am, struggling to get the bunnies to get on with dictating 'Old Dogs Old Tricks' and Dean's Pirate Adventure - Jackie-Joy is being a diva again, and Dirty Miranda has gone into dry dock - and whilst I'm trying to wheedle something out of those two little... wretches, this critter pops its head up out of a bag of lizard nest box substrate, of all things. And it WILL NOT SHUT UP. AAAAAAAARGH! That's THREE of the little... devils on the go at once! (Still, having complained that the plot bunnies had deserted me completely, I probably shouldn't complain too loudly, and maybe some competition will get the other ones talking again...)

I think one of the Denizens might have sent this bunny some months ago - if it was you, IDENTIFY YOURSELF YOU RELENTLESS TERMAGANT!

So, it's just a vague outline at this point, but writing sometimes encourages the little... dears, so let's have a try, and call this one...

 **Disclaimer:** They aint mine (but if they were I'd rent them out by the hour and retire on the proceeds)

 **Title:** Like A Boss

 **Rating:** T. Because Dean. And themes. And Dean-themes.

 **Summary:** There's something wrong with Castiel, Angel of the Lord and Sheriff of Heaven. Sam's no expert on celestial physiology, but if he didn't know better, he'd say that Cas has a terrible cold. Which is silly, because angels don't get colds, right? I mean, it would have to be a pretty specific and souped-up cold to infect an angel. Or, for that matter, a demon. But the real question is, when a supernatural being in an important position of power is out of action, who's going to stand in for the boss?

* * *

 **Chapter One**

"I gotcha, bro," Sam half-led, half-dragged his big brother away from the building. Dean was doing his best to keep up and carry his own weight, but he was clearly in pain, and just as clearly determined not to let it show. For once, Sam was content to let the he-man I'm-your-big-brother-and-I'm-fine routine slide – he could barely see as it was, but his brother was in a worse state, and right at that moment his immediate concern was to get them away from the place before

 _FWOOMP_

It wasn't like in the movies when a prop façade packed with pyrotechnics went up, mused a part of his brain as the force of displaced air hit them and almost sent them sprawling, but that was the nature of reality, it was so boringly real, not entertaining at all, really, and right now, he'd be really really happy with boring…

They stumbled as far as the car and he got shotgun open on the second try, depositing his brother gracelessly then scrambling around to the driver's seat himself. Dean let out a small stifled yelp as he slid awkwardly into the seat, and Jimi, the half-Hellhound Rottweiler, leaned his big earnest head over the seat, nosing in concern at his Alpha.

"It's all good, bro," Sam told his brother, starting the engine and easing the car carefully out onto the road, and watching the conflagration in the mirror, "It's goin' up like a bonfire."

"Sam," Dean said in a small quiet voice, "Sam, I can't see."

"I know," Sam replied, his voice as calm as he could make it, "Just hang tight, let me get us back to the room, we'll fix this…"

"Sam," his big brother repeated, a decidedly unDeanlike tremor in his voice, "I can't see."

"It's okay, bro," Sam tried to sound reassuring, "We'll get this fixed, I promise."

Like so many Hunts before it, the job had not gone exactly to plan.

It had appeared to be a routine salt and burn, a haunting in a beauty salon – Miss Sarah-Belle Hemridge's Palais de Primp – that had catered to the drag community. When the proprietor had refused to sell up to a developer, the would-be speculator decided to take matters into his own hands, and torch the place; Miss Sarah-Belle had been working late, and had sadly perished in an explosion made worse by the large quantities of nail acrylic, polish, hairspray and lamé fabric on site. The salon had been refurbished and carried on business in the capable hands of Miss Sue Perheeroe, but it was a classical recipe for a vengeful haunting.

What the Winchesters didn't realise until it was too late was that one of Miss Hemridge's assistants had been working with her, taking inventory of the wig stocks, so there were in fact two angry ghosts to deal with.

And in accordance with the Universal Principles of Winchester Luck, the assistant who'd died along with her employer had been Miss Annie Bolic, whose stage act had included her trademark move where she hoisted a leather-clad twink on each bicep whilst belting out 'You Think You're A Man'.

The two unquiet spirits had double-teamed the Winchesters, nearly primping them into submission before the boys managed to light the place up to destroy everything that was anchoring the angry ghosts there. But they'd done it, and gotten out alive – any job you could walk (or perhaps stagger) away from counted as a win, in Sam's book. And if Dean was experiencing some physical distress due to the encounter, well, Sam couldn't help but think that maybe he'd contributed to the problem himself…

It was a classic, predictable, utterly reliable Dean strategy: angry manifestation taking too close an interest in his brother, so he'd say whatever he thought would be most effective in taking the ghost's attention away from Sam, and draw it to himself. And while it was usually a very effective strategy, under the circumstances, taunting a professional drag artiste about body hair had been an invitation for trouble.

Especially given that waxing was one of the mainstay services the salon had provided.

And Miss Bolic had truly been a big girl, so to speak.

The unkind comparison, which had included the words 'gorilla' and 'weed whacker' and 'Agent Orange', had the desired effect: the two ghosts immediately turned away from Sam. As Miss Bolic grabbed Dean, then Miss Hemridge reached for the wax pot and the spatula, it gave Sam the opportunity to search out and find the two pairs of size thirteen high heels they were looking for. Finding the footwear that had been kept as mementoes of the former beauty therapists, he concentrated on deploying salt and lighter fluid and lighting 'em up, but hadn't been able to completely block out the sound of tearing denim, his brother's outraged complaint, and then his screams…

Squinting through the eyeliner and shadow caking his lids, he drove through the night back to their crappy motel room du jour. At least one of them could still see, he thought, sparing a glance for his big brother.

Although why anybody, even the crazed and deranged ghost of a vengeful drag act beautician, would even want to put false eyelashes on Dean, given that the man's own eyelashes were as long as a Jersey cow's, was beyond him.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

"Nearly there," Sam reassured his big brother. Dean lay sprawled on his bed in shirt and shorts, moaning, as Sam dabbed carefully at his left eye with a cotton tip soaked in make-up remover, where the fantastically long tiger-striped fake eyelashes had become entangled and acted to glue Dean's lids shut. "Just about coming off now…"

The glue finally gave way, and Dean's eye sprang open. As it did, he let out a piercing shriek.

"What? What?" Sam yelped frantically, peering into Dean's eye to see if he could identify some injury, "Is there something in your eye?"

"Oh – my – GOD!" yipped Dean, his just-freed eye opening wide. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean, what the fuck is wrong with me?" demanded Sam. "I got primped, just like you!"

"No, no, I mean, have you seen yourself?" demanded Dean. "Jesus, Sam, sky blue shadow up to your eyebrow, what the fuck, dude? I do NOT need to have my eye finally pop open, and see that!"

"Huh?" Sam paused, and glanced over at the speckled mirror on the wall – Miss Hemridge had apparently been going for a retro roller disco 70s look. It hadn't looked good then, and the passage of a few decades hadn't improved it any.

"You look like Mimi," complained Dean, "Or maybe Barbara Cartland with a bulldog clip on the back of her head. Fuck, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Well, excuse me for giving your glued-shut-by-false-lashes eyes priority over my so-last-century makeover!" snapped Sam, giving Dean a searing _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?). "I could've just left you here, blinded, and cleaned my own face off first, but hey, call me a careless idiot, I thought I'd just get my brother's sight restored first…"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean let his head fall back. "Next time, give a guy warning, you know, 'Oh, by the way, before you open your eye, I look like an extra from a really cheap bad porno film'."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, attending to Dean's other eye. Finally all the offending fakes were removed. "Okay, your eyes are open. This stuff will take of the make-up, and you'll be back to looking your doe-eyed self in no time."

"Great," said Dean, a grim expression on his face, "Now give me the bad news."

"Huh?" Sam blinked. "What bad news? There is no bad news, those lashes came off, your own are all still there, that crap will clean off. Unless you're having some problem with your sight, there is no bad news!"

"Not my eyes!" snapped Dean, his face reddening somewhat, "You know," he waved a hand vaguely legward, "Down… there."

Sam glanced down at his brother's legs. "Oh, that," he couldn't suppress a grin. "Yeah, you got waxed, bro."

"How bad is it?" asked Dean. "Don't sugar-coat it, just tell me."

"Looks like a full leg job," Sam elaborated. "Couldn't you tell?" He smiled. "You screamed like a little bitch," he added.

"Once the wax started flying, it was all a bit of a blur," replied Dean. "A very painful blur. Which is why I did some unavoidable and totally manly yelling. A man gets the hairs ripped out of his legs, he's gonna do some manly yelling, okay? Fuck, it felt like I was sittin' in a pot of boilin' water," Dean humphed, "And I was kinda tryin' to block it out." He tweaked at his shorts. "Damn it, I think those assholes got my brief line…"

"It'll grow back," Sam shrugged, "You've had worse."

Dean's glowering glare suggested that he did not entirely agree.

"Well, why don't you hit the shower," Sam told him, "And I will remove my terrifying and completely outdated makeover, so your delicate sensibilities aren't offended."

Dean picked up some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom. "Yeah, get on that, RuPaul," he muttered. "And by the way, that foundation so does NOT work on you," he added, "It's too pink, you need something a bit warmer, ya know, for people who did this for a living, they got all the taste of a _Jersey Shore_ wannabe…"

Sam sighed, and started to clean the make-up from his face. For a guy who could be ridiculously stoic about life-threatening injuries, Dean could sometimes be as melodramatic as hell about things that really didn't matter. Seriously, complaining about the tacky make-up the ghost had left? Melodrama much?

He was just swiping the last of the crap from his face when heard a shriek from the bathroom. Gun in hand, Jimi at his heels, he burst into the door.

"What?" he demanded, searching for the threat that had sneaked up on his brother. There was nothing in the bathroom except his big brother. His big brother, clutching a towel around himself. Clutching around himself, and wearing an expression of desperate horror. "Fuck, Dean," he grumbled, putting up his weapon, "I thought something terrible was happening to you."

"Something terrible HAS happened to me!" yipped Dean, "I've been… I've been…"

"You've been…?" prompted Sam.

"I've been…" Dean swallowed, his eyes looking stricken. "Sam, I've been… clear-felled."

"Clear-felled?" echoed Sam.

"Clear-felled!" repeated Dean. "You know," he paused to wave a hand vaguely, then quickly returned to clutching at his towel. "Clear-felled! Defoliated! The optical inch, and then some!'

"What?" Sam's face creased in confusion before his brother's meaning became clear. "What do you mean, defol… oh. _Oh_." He blinked. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" snapped Dean, "You think I'd joke about somethin' like this?"

"Well, why were you screaming like you were having your arms cut off?" demanded Sam. "You gave me a hell of a scare!"

"You got a scare?" Dean scoffed scornfully. " _You_ got a scare? I'm the one who was assaulted by those damned ghosts with a wax pot, which incidentally should be banned in The Hague as a form of torture, I'm the one who went to get into the shower and discovered that he's been, been, been…"

"Denuded?" suggested Sam helpfully.

"…left completely bare! No man has any business bein' completely bare below the waist, Sam, not unless he's like a pole-dancin' stripper or something or he's eight years old! And _you're_ complainin' that _you_ got a scare?" Dean glared at him accusingly.

"Okay, okay!" Sam held up his hands in a placating gesture, "You got a scare too! Probably a worse one than me! I'm sorry!" He paused. "How the hell did you get, you know," he waved a hand vaguely about waist height, "And not realise it?"

"It was kind of generalised agony in the generalised area," Dean muttered, "And I told you, I was tryin' to block it out."

Sam tutted sympathetically. "So, they got you good, huh?"

" 'Good' is not the word I'd use," Dean muttered.

"Okay, yeah, poor choice of word," Sam agreed. "The whole nine yards, then?"

"And then some," Dean sighed gloomily.

"The full monty?"

"With a capital mont."

"Like the whole, uh, scorched earth strategy?"

"The crater of the Tunguska event wasn't this scorched."

"Well, look on the bright side," Sam said sunnily, "You got it done for free. Do you know how much you can be charged for a crack back and sa-AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Sam let out a shriek almost as loud as Dean's had been as his brother pulled off his towel and snapped him expertly on the upper leg with it. "JESUS H. CHRIST!"

"I hope it hurt," scowled Dean. "You shut the fuck up, or the next one will get you where they got me…"

"Not that!" Sam wailed as he clapped his hands to his eyes. "Oh, fuck me, I did NOT need to see that!"

"Now you know how I felt when my eye opened," Dean smiled unkindly.

"Aaaaaaargh!" went Sam again, turning his back, and yodelling in pained outrage as Dean snapped him on the backside. "Aaaaargh! You are not allowed to take off so much as a sock in the same room as me until it grows back!"

He scuttled out of the room as he heard the shower start. Jimi tilted his head, and gazed up at his Second with big questioning brown eyes.

"Your Alpha is an asshole," muttered Sam. "Fuck, I'm glad this job is done. Two angry ghosts, ridiculous make-overs, and, and, and, that, I just want today to be over." He paused, and reached down to pat the dog, who gave him a big doggy grin. "Yeah, you're right," he sighed, with a small grin of his own. "After this, it can't get any worse."

Jimi barked twice, and butted at Sam as a muffled _flap-flap_ noise came to his ears…

"Hello, Sam."

"Gaaaaah! Oh," Sam let out another yip of surprise. "Hi, Cas. Sorry, you startled me. And before you ask, yeah, it's the personal space thing… uh," he peered at the angel more closely. "Uh, you sound a bit more, um, gravelly than usual. And your vessel is looking a bit pale."

"Yes," agreed Castiel in a vague tone.

"Cas, are you all right?" asked Sam, feeling a bit worried.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord and Warrior of Heaven, gave him the expression that the Winchesters privately referred to as the Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom, and said, "No."

Then it was just as well he had the personal space thing wrong again, because when he fainted, Sam was right there to catch him.

* * *

Poor Dean - discombobulating (or defoliating) him is just too entertaining. And poor Cas - he doesn't look well. And Poor Sam - because Dean.

What on earth is this plot bunny up to? And what's its name? Possibly Florence. Florence Nightmare. Encourage the critter, and let's see if we can wring an actual story out of it...


	2. Chapter 2

ZOMG, the reviews seem to be working - Florence popped up and dictated another chapter, and even a weeny little fragment of actual plot!

And now, The Driver wants to know:

 _How does a non-corporeal manifestation of celestial intent manage to get a cold anyway?_

A good question. A very good question. One that the Winchesters will be keen to have answered, so let's ask Florence what's going on…

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

When he emerged from the shower, Dean forgot all about his traumatic epilatory experience and went into triage mode.

"What happened?" he asked, running an eye over the angel, who lay prostrate on one of the beds and was letting out small moans at irregular intervals, then he knelt down to start looking for injuries. "Is he wounded? Has one of those flying dicks attacked him? It's okay, Cas, I swear, I will hunt down the winged asshole who did this and deep-fry 'em until Colonel Sanders himself would be proud of me…"

"I don't know!" Sam yelped, "I was just finishing up decon out here, when he appeared, and, and, it was like he fainted!"

"Cas," Dean bent over the bed, "Cas, can you hear me?"

"Hello, Dean," Castiel rasped even more raspily than usual. "Yes, I can hear you. In fact, I would be grateful if you would shout not so loudly."

"Uh, I'm not shouting, dude," Dean told him.

"The angel opened one eye. "Are you certain?"

"He's not," confirmed Sam, "He's actually speaking fairly quietly."

"Then I would be grateful if you would speak fairly quietly not so loudly," amended Castiel.

"Right, right," nodded Dean, finishing his examination. "So, I don't see any wounds," he glanced worriedly at Sam while attempting to drop his voice. "So, uh, what's the problem with my speaking quietly?"

"It aches," replied Cas.

"It aches?" echoed Sam. "Cas, can you be more specific? What exactly aches?"

The angel appeared to consider the question carefully. "Yes," he eventually replied, before bursting into a fit of coughing.

"Whoa, Cas," Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and manoeuvred him upright, while Sam proffered tissues. Castiel accepted a handful with grave thanks and some more coughing, then slumped clumsily against Dean, where he sighed and closed his eyes again, apparently finding the awkward position comfortable.

"Oh, er," went Dean. "Cas, why are you leanin' on me?"

"Because if I did not I believe I would fall to the floor," muttered Castiel into Dean's shirt.

"Okay, well, why don't we get you back on the bed, buddy, and…"

"This is comfortable," Cas interrupted.

"It is?" Dean didn't sound convinced.

"Yes," confirmed Castiel. "I do not believe I am capable of maintaining an upright posture unassisted, and lying down makes breathing difficult."

"Breathing?" Sam sounded incredulous. "But Cas, you're an angel, you don't have to breathe!"

"Ordinarily, no," agreed Cas, "But if I lie down flat, I experience an unpleasant pressing sensation in my chest, a vague sense of panic, and an ebbing of consciousness. Also, I believe that I aaaaa…."

"Aaaaaaaaaa?" queried Dean. "Talk to me Cas, you aaaaaaaa…?"

"Aaaaaaaa," Castiel repeated.

"Aaaaaaaaa?" said Sam, trying to sound encouraging, "You aaaaaaa… you aaaaare? Are what?"

"Aaaaaaaa," went Castiel.

"Are you aaaaangry?" prompted Dean. "Are you aaaannoyed?"

"Aaaaaaaa- _CHOO_!"

In the sudden silence after the explosive sneeze, Sam proffered more tissues.

"I apologise, Dean," mumbled Castiel.

"It's okay Cas," Dean sighed, "This shirt probably needed washing anyway. Do you think you could, uh, unlean for a bit?"

Between them, the Winchesters got the angel slumped against the headboard while Dean gingerly pulled his shirt off over his head. "I think he's running a temperature," he confided, "He feels uncomfortably warm."

"If I didn't know better, I'd guess he had a cold. A real nasty one," theorised Sam grimly.

"But that's ridiculous!" protested Dean, "He's an angel! Angels don't run temperatures! Angels don't get dizzy! Angels don't sneeze! Angels don't get sick!" He grimaced at his shirt. "They certainly don't leave disgusting deposits of snot behind."

Sam bent down to the moaning figure. "Cas, are you… are you still you? I mean, are you still… angelic?"

Painfully, with the movements of an old man, Castiel levered himself upright against the bedhead, hanging on as if he'd fall off if he let go; there was a brief flare of searing unearthly light, throwing shadows on the wall.

"Crap," muttered Dean, pulling on another shirt, "That has to be the droopiest, ruffledest, saddest lookin' pair of wing-shadows I've ever seen." He pulled on a clean shirt, then sat on the bed next to Cas, who let out another small moan. "Listen, Cas, Sam thinks you might be sick, or something, which aint normal for an angel, so I think it might be a good idea to get you to Bobby's and figure out what's happened to you, then we can work out how to fix it."

Castiel opened his eyes a little. "I do not believe I am able to transport us to Singer Salvage," he said, with a shiver, "I am sorry."

"Don't be," Dean said firmly, taking a blanket and wrapping it around Castiel, "We'll just go in Baby, okay? She's done plenty of ambulance-type runs in her time. Since this seems to be manifestin' as a human type cold, we'll try some cold meds, see if they help any – we'll get you as comfortable as we can, and we'll head out as soon as we've packed up."

Castiel gave Dean a small exhausted smile. "Thank you, Dean," he rasped, "Thank you both."

Then he slid sideways until he was leaning on Dean again, and appeared to go to sleep.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

"Bollocks," rasped Crowley, glaring at the damned souls standing before him. The effect was spoiled somewhat when he had to break off to honk noisily and productively into a handkerchief. "What a complete balls-up. Aren't you people meant to be qualified?"

"Well, it's funny you should say that," one of the souls risked a small sheepish smile, "Because traditionally, actual doctors can be notoriously bad at infection control. Ask any scientist, they'll shriek in horror if you suggest letting a clinician into their culture cabinet or containment lab…"

"No, Harold, it is NOT funny," snapped Crowley, breaking off to cough, "It is not the LEAST bit funny. You see these fingers?" He held up a clenched fist. "That's how many funny points this gets. It doesn't even rate a blip on the funnyometer."

"But we have succeeded!" protested another soul, "And it works!"

"Oh, yes, it works," Crowley rolled his eyes – then winced, because that made his aching head spin – "It definitely works. It works wonderfully well. The point IS, Josef, it isn't supposed to work on ME!" He spluttered again, paused to try to clear his ears, then gave up when it clearly wasn't going to work. "If I thought I could summon the energy, I'd disembowel the lot of you."

" _Sumimasen_ , I believe that the time line imposed by yourself was unrealistic to begin with, so sorry," a third soul ventured with a small bow. "But you did day that you wanted this project completed as quickly as possible, Crowley-san. If you would kindly allow us a fresh batch of demons as test subjects, I think a further vivisectional study of the transmission method might allow us to…"

"I don't want to know about the transmission method in demons!" Crowley attempted to thunder intimidatingly; unfortunately, his voice went from rasp to frankly amusing squeak as he spoke. "We know all we need to know about its transmission in demons, Shiro! It's transmitted to me, that's all I care about!" He glared at the fourth individual. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"That's one of our exchange program fellows, Mr Crowley," Orgle the indispensable fiend gently reminded his boss. "He's here as part of the Diabolical Inter-Cultural Knowledge & Heritage Exchange Directive. You know, we visit them and they visit us." Several of Orgle's mouths smiled. "Remember, I spent three months in Jahannam last decade, stayed with a lovely host ifrit, he even tried to teach me to ski on the frozen damned of Zamhareer, but I wasn't very good, I was better at snowboarding…"

"Oh, yes," snuffled Crowley, pausing briefly to remember the charming she-ifrit who'd taken over Orgle's position as his PA on exchange from Islam's Hell – she had been a ruthless, cunning and evil creature, and he thought he'd fallen a little bit in love, to the point where he was wondering what sort of a reception he'd get if he tore out his host's heart and offered it to her. "But what's this D.I.C.K.H.E.D. doing here with Larry, Curly and Mo?"

"We thought he might be able to help," shrugged the soul called Josef. "We are medical people, we don't have any expertise in delivery systems."

"Uh, well, if I'm honest, neither do I," the visiting soul said apologetically. "We had the agents, yes, and we filled the munitions, yes, but the systems weren't tested – we really had no idea if it would work in an offensive capacity, or just mostly affect our own troops, which was more likely…"

"Well, you are in good company, then," griped Crowley, taking out his hankie once more, inspecting it despairingly, then dropping it into the waste basket and grabbing a handful of tissues from the box that Orgle proffered. "The company of other equally incompetent idiots, because this, gentlemen, has returned to sink it's dentition most firmly into a posterior. Mine, as it happens."

"So sorry?" asked the soul named Shiro, "dentition… posterior?"

"He means it's come back to bite us on the bum," sighed Harold.

"No," Crowley corrected through clenched teeth, "It has come back to bite ME on the bum. Not you; me. Why is that, anyway?" he asked grumpily, blowing his nose again. "Why am I the one who's feeling like the east-facing end of a west-bound wilderbeest?"

"Could be your importance, _Mein Fuhrer_ ," suggested Josef, "You did say that the aim of the project was to cause maximum disruption to the enemy by disrupting their administrative command structure. Unfortunately, what we have here seems to be a case of friendly fire."

"Oh, friendly fire, I like that," Crowley managed between sniffles, "That's just bloody great, that is. Friendly fire? It's one of life's great oxymorons, isn't it, like 'government service' and 'airline food' and 'military intelligence' and 'American cuisine' and 'political science'. If this fire gets any friendlier I just may burst into flames…"

"I believe the more modern Western world uses the phrase 'blue on blue'," contributed Harold.

"Does it? Does it really?" asked Crowley with a vicious and utterly humourless smile as he flapped at his face and shrugged out of his jacket. "Well, that makes it all better then. Because this was done to me by blue people. As opposed to, say, green people, which might indicate an invasion from Mars…"

"Actually, the force opposing blue was historically orange," Harold sounded like he was warming to a theme, but at a glare from Crowley he cooled very quickly.

"Morons," the cough-racked King of Hell muttered, "It is my fate to be surrounded by morons, I am a titanic intellect making my way through a sea of icebergs…"

"Oh, I know the feeling, _effendi_ ," the exchange program soul said with empathy, "Maybe you should take some time off to unwind from the stresses of office, behead a few underlings until you feel better, it worked wonders for me when I was having a bad day."

"Right now I am overwhelmingly tempted to start with you lot," Crowley grated out.

"That might not be a good idea, Mr Crowley," Orgle rumbled quietly, "It won't look good for other D.I.C.K.H.E.D.s if we send Saddam back in pieces; it's a demarcation matter, too, dismembering the Islamic wicked over and over again is the ifrits' job. And we've only just had the carpet cleaned in here since last time, although I think Phlegmgob rather enjoys sucking the stains out." At the mention of his name, the small fuzzy imp popped out of Orgle's shaggy pelt and scampered to his shoulder, where it waved and farted a greeting.

"Well, it's nice to know that there are individuals who are keen to serve," Crowley sighed, glaring once more through watering eyes at the four unhappy sinners before him. "Go on then," he told them, "Get out, you incompetent idiots. And take this D.I.C.K.H.E.D. with you. 'Weapon of Mass Destruction' indeed, 'Weapon of Mass Congestion' is more like it, go on, out, the lot of you!"

Dejected, Dr Shipton, Sensei Ishii, Herr Doktor Mengele and His Exellency Hussein al Tikriti trooped out of Crowley's office.

"Are you all right, Mr Crowley?" asked Orgle, wringing a few of his paws anxiously, because it was incredibly out of character for his boss to send away souls that had pissed him off without administering at least a token flaying, dismembering or disembowelling, of only for appearances' sake. "You don't look well, and you don't sound well."

"No, Orgle, I am not all right," Crowley replied, staggering to his luxurious sofa and dropping heavily to it, "Thanks to those fools, their supposed anti-angel agent has infected me instead, and I feel terrible. I have not felt this dreadful since I caught diphtheria from that tribe of screaming sprogs living in the hovel next to my workshop; thought I was going to die, I did. It was certainly a relief when half those feral kids did."

A small comet of white vapour materialised, whizzing playfully around Crowley, finally manifesting as Gedda the Teacup Hellpoodle and dropping to the sofa beside him, where he wearily raised a hand to pat her.

"Hello, my darling," he sighed, finding a small smile as the second-most feared creature of The Pit gazed up at him adoringly, tail wagging, "I'm so sorry, but Daddy's not really feeling up to taking you for your w-word right now." With a sympathetic humph, the little Hellpoodle crawled into his lap and made herself comfy. "In fact, I'm not sure I could even find the energy to seat myself on my bidet right now."

"Would you like a drink, Mr Crowley?" asked Orgle.

"That, Orgle, is a marvellous idea," the King of Hell answered, "A nice tot of Craig, a first-line therapy for everything from bubonic plague to The Apocalypse, on the grounds that it couldn't make the situation any worse."

"I'm on it, Mr Crowley," Orgle assured him, turning and heading for the bar in the corner of the office, "Maybe you could have it in hot water with lemon, for your cough?"

There was no reply, just a slumping, slithering noise, suggestive of somebody in an expensive shirt sliding off a sofa.

* * *

Oh, that wascally demon, he's a naughty boy. What would he do without his indispensable Fiend Friday, the ever-helpful Orgle?

Send reviews to feed to Florence the plot bunny, because Reviews Are The Delicious Hot Lemon Drink Soothing You When You Are Oppressed By The Depleting Lurgy Of Life! (You may have a tot of something in it, if you want. Because if you have that when you're not well, as Nanny Ogg would say, it's not drinking, it's medicine.)


	3. Chapter 3

Remember, here in The Jimiverse, we only have happy stories, so Bobby never died, and after Singer Salvage was blown up by Godstiel's truly spectacular bout of celesto-diabolical gastroenteritis it was rebuilt bigger and better, so they will head back to Bobby's place. In this verse, they probably find the bunker nonetheless and use it occasionally, but as long as I write Jimiverse fanfics, they will always have a home at Singer Salvage.

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Sam glanced across to Jimi Jr, who was curled up and asleep in shotgun, then glanced in the mirror to see Dean once more wrangling the blanket that Cas had managed to dislodge in his fitful dozing.

"Okaaaaay, there ya go," Dean carefully tucked the blanket around the angel, who stared at him blearily, "Nice and cosy, so you can just sit back and…"

With a small gurgling sigh, Castiel closed his eyes and tilted to starboard until he was leaning on Dean once more, face buried in his shirt, and proceeded to snore in a congested fashion.

"… lean all over me again," finished Dean glumly. Carefully he tried to lever Cas upright, but as soon as he was more or less vertical, Cas frowned in his sleep, and slid back down the seat until he was once again sprawled against Dean's shoulder. "What is this?" he demanded as Cas snurfled and wiggled to get comfortable. "What the hell am I, a security blanket?"

"Well, you heard him," Sam shrugged and tried hard not to grin, "Sitting upright makes his head spin, and lying down makes his chest hurt."

With a calculating expression, Dean tried once more to edge Castiel, bit by bit, to lean the other way against the door and window. But to no avail; as soon as the ailing angel looked like he was settled, he'd quickly shift back to lean on Dean once more. "Fuck, he's as bad as you were as a kid. He's possibly worse, because he's bigger. Why can't he get comfortable all over you?" Dean demanded.

"I don't know!" humphed Sam, "You saw what happened; when we tried that, it didn't work, he was in serious discomfort whatever he did." He paused. "Don't get grumpy at me because he doesn't want to snuggle with me."

"Hey, we are NOT snuggling!" snapped Dean, "Okay? We are totally not snuggling. Not even manly man-snuggling. No snuggling goin' on back here, is there, Cas?"

"None at all, Dean," agreed Castiel in a muffled voice, rubbing his cheek against Dean's shirt to get comfortable.

"Right," chortled Sam. "Well then, it probably serves you right for feeding him so much NyQuil."

"Well, the snoring is marginally better than the moaning," replied Dean defensively.

"Dude, you've overdosed him!" insisted Sam.

"Crap," scoffed Dean, "I didn't give him any more than I'd use on myself."

"The prosecution rests," declared Sam grimly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Dean.

"Look, it's well established that you have a bionic liver," Sam elaborated, "Because the way you've treated it since you were fourteen, if you didn't have a superhuman liver, you'd be dead by now! Your liver can handle doses of NyQuil that would be more than sufficient to treat a mammoth with a stuffy nose!"

"Well, Cas is an angel," Dean said firmly, "And if it helps him when he's not feelin' his usual awesomely powerful celestial self, he can handle it. This is the guy who drank a liquor store, it's gonna take more than a bit of antihistamine to knock him over, right Cas?"

"I didn't stand on the fish," mumbled Castiel, without even opening his eyes, "But I think I may have left footprints in the butter, my apologies for that."

"Well," Sam went on, unable to help himself, saying as innocently as he could, "In that case, it could be because he's an angel, and you're the Righteous Man – you do share a profound bond, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," sighed Dean, grimacing as he surveyed the damp patch on his overshirt. "Jesus, much more of this snot and we'll be bonded together more than either of us would ever want. I've met grizzling three-year-olds who weren't this… excretory." He dabbed fruitlessly at Castiel's nose. "Bobby have any ideas?"

"Not yet," Sam replied, "But he knows we're coming, and he said Cas can hole up until we can figure out what the hell has happened."

"Well, I hope your research-fu comes through fast," remarked Dean, as Castiel yawned, and blinked up at him. "Hey, Cas, you should probably drink some more, gotta keep those fluids up – think you can manage?"

"Yes, I think so," Castiel croaked, painfully pushing himself up from Dean's shoulder. "I really do feel quite unwell."

"Well, this will help," Dean said, reaching for the bottle of sports drink, "We gotta keep you hydrated, what with all the, uh, leakin' that you're doing."

Castiel accepted the bottle, took a drink, and then examined it. "This beverage is blue," he noted.

"Well, yeah," Dean agreed, "Good to see that your eyes are still workin'."

"And yet the taste is clearly intended to represent that of raspberries," the angel went on, frowning.

"Gotta love that perfect combination of artificial flavourings and additives," smiled Dean.

"That does not make sense," Castiel said, clearly confused. "Why would something intended to taste like raspberries be coloured blue?"

"You'd have to ask their marketing department," Dean shrugged, "Drink up."

Castiel took another drink. "I could understand if it was supposed to be, for example, blueberries," he intoned seriously, "Although blueberries are not actually truly blue, and the juice of blueberries is only coloured purple if the skins are mashed to extract the antocyanin pigments that give the fruit its characteristic appearance."

"Uh, yeah, right," Dean nodded warily.

Castiel finished the bottle and handed it back to Dean carefully. "I think it is a strange colour to put into a drink meant to represent the flavouring of a fruit," he said seriously. "I think that a lurid bright blue colour is not appropriate to put into a drink, unless you are attempting to market a drink containing bioluminescent algae or bacteria. I think that this beverage has an entirely disturbing appearance. And I think…" he paused, as if trying to remember something important.

"Yeah, you think…?" Dean prompted.

Castiel looked at him in a slightly cross-eyed fashion. "I think that I am going to fall asleep again now," he replied seriously, gently slumping back across the seat. By the time his face was once more mashed into Dean's shirt, he was snoring gently again.

With a sigh, Dean pulled the blanket around him, and glared at the back of Sam's head, daring him to laugh.

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A number of hours, a few more bottles of weird isotonic drinks and more doses of cold & flu meds later, they arrived at the salvage yard. Bobby and Jimi's sister, Janis, came out to meet them as Dean carefully wrangled an apparently suddenly boneless Castiel out of the car.

"God's tits, son, you look like hammered shit," Bobby began without preamble.

"Hello, Bobby," rasped Castiel. "Regrettably, I do feel like something has chewed me up, digested me, excreted me, then pounded me with a very large mallet."

"Let's get the patient inside," the old Hunter directed, "And see if we can figure out what's goin' on."

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Dean, "And honestly, I'm kinda lookin' forward to changing my shirt. Come on, buddy, it's beddy-byes time for sick little angels."

Between them, Sam and Dean wrangled Castiel up the stairs and into the house, where Bobby directed them to the guest room.

"Okay, I think it's probably okay to lose the tie and maybe even the coat at this point," Dean decided. Sam stood back and smiled, watching Dean go into mother-hen mode, fluffing pillows and adjusting bedclothes whilst keeping up a stream of chatter about nothing in particular. "So you just lie here and rest, and Sam and Bobby will figure out what we gotta do to get you back on your feet again."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel managed a very small, very wan smile. "Thank you all. I am so sorry to impose upon you like this."

"You're as good as family, boy," Bobby grunted, "So don't waste your breath apologisin', you concentrate all the energy you can muster on gettin' better."

"Yes, Bobby," Castiel managed before, once more, he began to snore.

"Have you ever heard of an angel getting, well, sick before?" asked Sam as they headed back down the stairs."

"Nope," admitted Bobby, "But I aint one to say somethin' is impossible just 'cause I aint ever seen it before. For example," he frowned at Dean, "When you were about eighteen, I would've said it was impossible to install a nativity scene hijacked from a mall on the roof of my house without me noticin' it happening."

"It's departmental policy to neither confirm nor deny," Dean replied sunnily.

"I also woulda said it was highly unlikely that baby Jesus would be cradled tenderly by the Michelin Man," Bobby continued. "I don't remember that bit from the Gospels."

"It's in Luke, I think," suggested Sam. "You know, 'And the archangel Gabriel did appear unto Bibendum and did say unto him, Greetings, blessed one, The Lord is with you, be not afraid, for you will conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Jesus, and he shall be great, and he shall be fitted with off-road steel-belted radials…'."

"Well, the Virgin Mary was bolted down, for some reason," Dean argued. "Gloria in excelsis All-Terrain Baby Jesus!"

"What I'm gettin' at here is that, just because we don't understand how somethin' can happen, that don't mean that it can't happen," Bobby clarified. "Especially when we got the evidence right there in front of us."

"Or in my case, right there on the front of my shirt," Dean added.

"So, what's the plan?" asked Sam. "Should we get him to a doctor? An actual human doctor?"

"I don't think we should rush to do anythin'," Bobby told them, "Until we can get some intel on this. Think about it," he said seriously. "First of all, he's an angel. And angel who appears to be manifestin' exactly as a sick human, true, but he is an angel. We can't take him to just any old doctor – who knows what they might find?"

"What, like, he's got two hearts, or something?" asked Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes and treated his brother to a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "He's a sick angel, Dean, he's not a Time Lord!"

"He's not a weeping angel, either," Dean said, "Although that hasn't stopped him leavin' me decidedly damp…"

"We don't know what a doctor might find," Bobby cut in before the conversation could degenerate into common or garden Winchester bicker, "And what awkward questions that might raise. Which is one reason to treat carefully with this. Also, this is Castiel, a Warrior of Heaven, but right now, also fillin' in for his Dad as Sheriff of Heaven. And looks to be pretty seriously incapacitated. The acting head honcho of Heaven Inc. is out of action."

He let that sink in.

"So, we gotta box clever on this one," Bobby surmised, "For now, we all get some sleep, then we hit the books, see if we can figure this out. As for Feathers, if the meds work on him, we do what we can to keep him comfortable, maybe make some chicken soup, keep the lemon drinks comin'…"

They all jumped slightly at the sound of another powerful sneeze.

"…Aaaaand wash down the walls as necessary."

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Crowley roused to a vaguely damp sensation: he was lying on his sofa, with Gedda licking anxiously at his face, and Orgle patting carefully at his hand.

"Wha… what just happened?" he asked vaguely.

"Mr Crowley, I think you might have fainted!" said Orgle, worry dripping from his voice. "You were sitting on your sofa, then you just fell right off it!"

"Nonsense," snapped Crowley, sitting up and reaching for his drink, "I'm a demon. Demons do not faint. I'll have a word with Snotty in Engineering, see if one of his underlings has been playing silly buggers with gravity again, I don't know how many times I've told them not to mess with the default settings for contextual physical properties of this plane of reality, no matter how many tantrums Duke Anghaal throws because he wants to have sex in zero-gee…"

He got to his feet, somewhat more unsteadily than he'd intended, and lost his balance, face-planting against Orgle.

"Ah, I see you've been down at the racks again," he said, muffled in the thick tangled pelt. "Helping to wind out intestines, if I'm any judge."

"I think it's good for me to keep my paw in, even if I work in Admin these days," replied Orgle. "Er, are you all right, Mr Crowley?"

"Yes, yes," Crowley replied airily, "It's been far too long since I pushed my face into a surface reminiscent of Chewbacca after he's been bathing in the entrails of his enemies, I should let myself have a bit of fun more often… er, Orgle?"

"Yes, Mr Crowley?"

"Do you think you could sort of lever me back upright again, there's a good chap."

With three of his massive arms, Orgle delicately lifted Crowley away from himself. The King of Hell came free with a slightly sticky noise, and fell backwards onto his sofa again.

"Ah, that's better." He patted at his pockets for a hankie, remembered that he'd contaminated his last one to a point where not even an imp would be prepared to handle it with asbestos gloves, and settled for wiping his face on his sleeve, since that shirt would clearly never play the piano again anyway. "Well, this is a bit of an embuggerance," he announced.

"I think you might be sick, Mr Crowley," Orgle ventured in a worried tone.

"I fear, Orgle, that you are right," sighed His Mephistophilean Majesty, coughing until Orgle felt compelled to pat him gently on the back, which to Crowley felt like being hit from behind by an angry Kodiak bear swinging a sledgehammer. "Oh, I feel truly dreadful."

"Do you think you will feel better soon?" asked Orgle in a doubtful voice. "Only, there's quite a lot in your calendar today." He turned back to tap carefully at the computer on the desk. "There's the Monthly Meeting, and your To Shred list is full, we have to go through the returns, then there's interviews for the next batch of applicants to work as cross-roads demons, and if the grapevine is anything to listen to then Dame Ghazoria's faction is plotting another attempt to overthrow you so you'll want to tear a few heads off to make your point, I cleared an hour in your schedule so you won't have to rush…"

With a tremulous groaned, Crowley fell back onto his sofa. "Orgle, mate, I couldn't deadhead a daisy right now," he moaned. "Ohhhh, I wish I was alive again, so at least I'd have the possibility of death to cheer me up…"

"What do people do when they get sick, Mr Crowley?" asked Orgle.

"Well, depending where they live, they go to get advice and treatment from a doctor, a shaman, or an old wise person, an individual with knowledge of such things," Crowley replied, "But given the apparent level of competence we've got Down Here, that really isn't going to help. No wonder we could never have a Redeemer born here to save the souls in Hell, I doubt we could find three wise men or one virgin…" With a small sad noise, he toppled sideways to the couch once more.

Hell's fiends weren't supposed to be terribly bright – Crowley privately thought of them as Hell's drummers – but Orgle was a fiend in a million, and probably the only individual in Hell besides Gedda the Hellpoodle who actually felt any regard for Crowley. His boss might not be prepared to consult anybody Hellside, but he knew for a fact that they did know an old wise person…

With his mouths set in resolute expressions, Orgle made a decision.

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Sam was poring over an old book and Dean was upstairs trying to coax Castiel into eating some tomato rice soup when Bobby answered the knock at the door.

"Hello Mr Singer! I'm so terribly sorry to bother you, but I really didn't know what else to do, and I'm so worried!"

Crowley, dangling from two of the fiend's arms, peered at him blearily, gave him a listless little wave, then honked vigorously into an expensive (and, as of that moment, terminally damaged) handkerchief.

"It's okay, Orgle," sighed the Man of Knowledge, "You better bring him in."

* * *

Well, Florence the plot bunny seems to be feasting on your reviews, so keep 'em coming! Who else do you think might get dragged into this humanitarian effort (or should that be angelitarian/demonitarian)? Shake your kale pom-poms for Florence! Because seriously, being waved around is the only thing kale is fit for, it certainly shouldn't be eaten.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Two days, a pot of soup and an avalanche of used tissues later, Bobby and Sam were no closer to figuring out what was going on.

"Nothing," Sam humphed, sitting back and rubbing his eyes, "I cannot find a damned thing that even hints at what's going on here."

"I'll second that," sighed Bobby glumly, taking off his hat and scratching his head.

"I mean, the closest I got was a description of the Spanish Flu, the global pandemic that went round the world in 1918," Sam continued, "But that wasn't the least bit occult, it was just a perfect storm of coincidental conditions: it was just a very ordinary and completely natural orthomyxovirus that probably jumped from poultry to humans, possibly via pigs…"

"I been thinkin' about that," mused Bobby. "If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…"

There was a sudden startling explosion of noise from upstairs.

"…And sneezes like a duck, maybe we aint lookin' for a phoenix after all, but somethin' more ordinary..."

There was a beep from Sam's watch, and he groaned and stood up.

Bobby headed for the kitchen and fetched two mugs of soup, while Sam headed for the laundry and returned with a bucket, a pair of gloves, and a pair of long-handled tongs. Together they headed up the stairs.

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The Sheriff of Heaven and the King of Hell did not look like death warmed up; death warmed up would have been a far more cheerful, hale and hearty sight.

"Why must I share a room with that feathered fool?" croaked Crowley, sounding like an overtired toddler. "He snores!"

"So do you," snapped Dean, paused in the act of trying to feed some soup to a mournful-looking Castiel, who was propped up with pillows in the bed on the other side of the room. "And you sneeze louder."

"And worse," griped Sam, as he moved about the room, picking up the numerous tissues with the tongs and dropping them into the bucket. "Just how many rainforests are we gonna go through before this is done?"

"Hankies aint gonna cut it," Dean declared grimly, offering Castiel an encouraging smile. "Come on, buddy, just a couple of mouthfuls, it'll make you feel better."

"Oooooh, you fibber," snuffled Crowley, reaching listlessly for the box of tissues by his bed and honking into one – he was about to drop it, but Sam pointedly held out the bucket, and the demon dropped it in. "Feeding him double-strength placebos."

"Shut up! Ignore him, Cas," Dean instructed, waving the spoon enticingly, "Demons lie, everybody knows that, so c'mon, here comes the heavenly choo-choo, open up the Pearly Gates…"

"First off, Your Majesty, you're in here because I only got the one humidifier," growled Bobby. "Second, the two of you got the same symptoms, so it's more efficient to have you both in here seein' as what one needs the other is likely to need as well, third, we got no idea of what we're dealin' with and it makes sense to quarantine the two of ya until we got more intel, fourth, this way I'll only have to do a heavy duty decon job on one room when this clusterfuck is over, and lastly but most importantly, if you want shelter under my roof, you'll get what you're given and take what you get and be grateful. Otherwise," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "Door's that way. Don't let the screen bang you on the ass on your way out."

"I'm hurt rather than angry," moaned Crowley, snuffling into another tissue, "That you would act so callously towards me when I am so terribly under the weather."

"Crowley, I would cheerfully shoot your scheming ass full of iron shot, whether you're under the weather or flyin' at thirty thousand feet above it in first class," Bobby told the drooping demon, "But what you got looks to be linked to Feathers, so I'm willin' to tolerate you as a house guest until we figure this out."

"You make me feel so special," Crowley muttered, extracting a hot water bottle from his bedding. "A refill if you please, my good moose."

Muttering something about filling the kettle with holy water, Sam took the hottie and stalked out of the room.

Bobby proffered the other mug of soup to His Miserable Majesty. "Whatever this is that's makin' you sick, it does seem to respond in a strangely human way – the meds seem to have some alleviatin' effects, and Dean is right about the soup. It is practically medicinal, if you can get a few mouthfuls down."

"Very well." Crowley looked up at Bobby expectantly.

The old Hunter quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"I said, 'very well'," repeated Crowley, "As in, I shall rally myself to eat some of this soup."

When he didn't move, Bobby proffered the mug again. "Well, what are you waitin' for? You look like a baby bird waitin' to be stuffed with worms."

"Ah, well," Crowley's eyes slid sideways. "Whilst I am grateful for your assistance and indulgence, such as it is, I cannot help but notice that there is a certain… disparity here."

"Disparity?" Sam echoed.

"Indeed," snuffled the King of Hell. "Over on that side of the room," he raised a hand briefly and gestured in the direction of Castiel, where Dean was wiping the angel's chin with a washcloth, "The patient care being provided is, it pains me to say it, of a somewhat, shall we say, more… attentive nature."

"More attentive, huh?" mused Bobby.

"Well, frankly, yes," Crowley continued, casting a look over at Castiel's bed again. "For I cannot help but notice that on that side of the room, there is a generous amount of pillow plumping, bedclothes fluffing and blanket fetching going on…"

"Really?" asked Bobby solicitously.

"…There was also soup feeding, and what I can only call doting encouragement…"

"Indeed?" tutted Bobby.

"…The uncomplaining and unsolicited preparation of hot lemon drinks…"

"My word."

"… I think I may even have spotted some gentle sponging of a fevered brow when he thought I was asleep…"

"Well, just fancy that."

"… And as for the rubbing on of Vicks, well, I understand that there is a certain demographic amongst fans of Edlund Carver's _Supernatural_ books who would tear each other to pieces in a stampede if somebody was selling tickets…"

"Nothin' I haven't done for Sam when he's been sick," Dean growled. "Cas is family, and you aint."

Looking thoughtful, Bobby sat down on the end of Crowley's bed and smiled at the demon. "Well, if you think that you aint gettin' enough attention, I think we can fix that."

"Really?" asked Crowley in a small hopeful voice.

"Really," Bobby smiled, and patted his leg through the blankets. "I can always send a d-mail to Verael, let her know what's happening, and maybe she'll come and look after you, I bet she could find a retired Matron, maybe somebody who worked in the prison system for forty years…"

Crowley let out a horrified shriek, then broke into a bout of coughing. "No!" he rasped, "You cannot let anybody Downstairs know what's happened to me! They're like wolves, the minute they think they spot weakness in the leader they'll tear me to pieces!"

"Much as your sneezing is doing to these tissues," muttered Sam, returning with a replenished hot water bottle. then grimacing as he went about his clean-up once more.

"… And if you really want somebody to rub the Vicks on, I'll call Orgle, I'm sure he'd be as careful as he could possibly be, so if you're lucky you'll probably escape with a minor appendectomy…"

Crowley clutched the bedclothes to his chin as Bobby stood up. "You wound me, Bobby."

"Don't tempt me," the old man muttered as he left the room. "Behave yourself, asshat."

Crowley turned large, sad eyes on Sam, who smiled back like a friendly shark before following Bobby.

"Crowley, I wouldn't sing 'Soft Kitty' to you if you were actually dying. In fact, if you were dying, the only thing I'd want to sing would be the Hallelujah Chorus."

The King of Hell slumped back against his pillows. "There are days," he moaned, "There are days when I think nobody cares."

"Don't think it, know it," Dean smiled humourlessly as he picked up the mug and spoon. "Try to get some rest, Cas, we'll have this thing figured out before you know it."

"Thank you, Dean," rasped Castiel, "I shall try to sleep."

"Good man." With a smile for the angel, and a pointed glare for the demon, he left too. Crowley let out a small sad noise and pulled the bedclothes up over his head as silence settled over the sick room.

"It is not true that nobody cares, Crowley," Castiel said eventually. "I care. I want you to be well as soon as possible."

"Really?" asked a muffled voice from under the covers.

"Really."

"That's…" Crowley's head popped out from under the sheet. "That's very charitable of you."

"My Father would wish me to practise Charity towards you, as towards all other beings, I am sure," Castiel added.

"Well… thank you, Castiel."

Silence descended once more.

"Also, Dean is correct; you do snore, and it is very annoying. And so are your sneezes."

With a small wail, Crowley burrowed into the bedclothes once more.

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Dean yawned and stretched, then looked up gratefully as Sam put a toasted sandwich in front of him. "Thanks, bro," he smiled, then yawned. "Those two are hard work. It's like havin' you sick home from school, only twice the tissues."

"Was I as bad as that?" asked Sam plaintively.

"Well, you weren't _quite_ as bad as Crowley," Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas is more of the stoic school, but Crowley, huh, the big tough demon is whiny, he's cranky, he'd be clingy if there was anybody willing to be the, uh, clingee." He bit into his sandwich. "So, any progress on the research front?"

"None whatsoever," reported Sam with a sigh. "There is nothing in Bobby's library that we can find that refers to a celestial or diabolical entity suffering from something that resembles a very human ailment…" He paused at the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. "Hey, Bobby, are you expecting anybody?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Bobby replied as he refilled is coffee. "I've been thinkin' about the way this resembles a human illness; I think we need some know-how in a less esoteric idiom, so I took the liberty of callin' in some help on this one."

There was a knock at the door, and Jimi and Janis went to answer it, barking their happy woofs of greeting. Bobby followed the dogs, and there was the sound of muted conversation before he returned accompanied by a tall man carrying a duffel and a doctor's bag.

"Ian!" Sam smiled and rose to shake the newcomer's hand. "Dude, how have you been?"

"Hey Sam," the older man replied, "Still here, still Hunting, being run ragged by my latest apprentice, who as it turns out is a complete smartass, which is why he's off on a salt-and-burn by himself while I'm here."

"Young Ryan chafin' at the training wheels, then?" Bobby grinned, referring to the young pre-turned rugaru that Ian had taken under his wing when the boy's father had turned and murdered the rest of his family.

"He's got an aptitude," Ian replied, "And he's as cocky as hell with it. Can't wait to get out of the nest and fly solo. I've been thinking of setting him an assignment, maybe sneaking up on Ronnie and putting a collar on her, to bring him back to Earth with an educational thump."

"Hmmmm, who does that remind me of?" Bobby wondered out loud, looking pointedly at Dean.

Dean glared at Bobby. "Why the hell did you pull Doctor Dracula into this?" he demanded without preamble.

"And hello to you too, Dean," Ian smiled widely, and let his fangs descend briefly just to see the scowl cross the older Winchester's face.

"Before he was a Hunter, he was a doctor," Bobby said firmly, "And he was lived through the Spanish Flu."

"No he didn't," protested Dean, "He wasn't alive. He, uh, he might've undeaded through it, but he didn't live through it."

"The point is," Bobby glared Dean into submission, "He was there when the Spanish Flu epidemic came and went. He's got job-relevant experience, and we need to pick his brain."

"While it's still inside my head and attached to the rest of me," added Ian with a sunny smile.

Dean was about to say something that was probably not going to be polite when the sound of another car pulling into the yard distracted him. "Jesus, Bobby, what are you doing here, throwing a party?"

"I figured we could use all the help we could get," Bobby shrugged, following the dogs as they left off pestering Ian for attention and headed for the door once more.

"Maybe we should just put an ad in the paper," griped Dean as the vampire helped himself to coffee, "Wanted: help to look after sick angel and demon, must be a freak with medical experience."

"I resent that," said a female voice, which was quickly followed by a middle-aged woman in a nun's habit. "Watch yourself, little brother, I can whup your fluffy but and you know it."

* * *

There you go, everybody's favourite Jimiverse vampire and nun - well done Florence. Actually, it sounds like the start of a joke.

 _A vampire doctor and a nun walk into a bar. Unfortunately, there are some old-fashioned vampires in the Dracula tradition there, and they are having a fight amongst themselves, and breaking the place up._

 _"Brawling vampires!" yelps the nun grasping the crucifix around her neck for reassurance, "How do we stop it?"_

 _"Quickly, sister," replies the vampire doctor, "Show them your cross!"_

 _So the nun stands on a chair and bellows, "Stop ruining my evening out you assholes or I'll start breaking heads!"_

Ahem. Maybe we shouldn't drag anybody else in if it's going to result in terrible jokes...

Please send reviews, because Florence the plot bunny loves to nibble on them while she dictates.


	5. Chapter 5

For any latecomers, lurkers, or casual droppers-in to the Jimiverse, these two characters have popped up in other stories.

We met Sister Felicity 'Fic' Morgan in 'Nun Of That', the Jimiverser's take on that fanfic trope staple, the sisterfic. She's Sam and Dean's older sister – she was born out of wedlock to Mary while John was in Vietnam, and adopted out when she was a few days old. She graduated as a doctor, but ended up as a police officer before she took the veil (an angel appeared to her in the shower and told her she had a vocation – it's true that none of them have any working concept of personal space). Occasionally she gets into trouble with Mother Superior for 1) beating up would-be thieves who try to lift the charity box, and 2) making a point of finding out where the priests stash their booze, and helping herself when she feels that she deserves it. Yeah, a sisterfic about a sister. Named Fic. A sisterfic about Sister Fic. It was the best I could do at the time, all right?

Dr Ian Gregson was born Iain Malcolm McGregor in 1817 in Aberdeen, Scotland, to a family of Hunters. However, his grandfather didn't train him up with his brothers, because young Iain was deemed to be too bookish and not to have the _virtus_ for it. He studied medicine, and after Hunting and the disease epidemics of the time culled his family, he migrated to Northern America where he served as a Union officer then military surgeon in the Civil War, before his wife and sons were murdered by vampires and he was the only one to survive. Well, the only one not to die outright; he's a vampire who doesn't feed off humans. He has, in his long Hunting career, mentored several youngsters who have found themselves turned into monsters through no fault of their own; Ryan the pre-turn rugaru is his latest apprentice, and insists on addressing him as 'Vlad'. Ian was Ronnie Shepherd's Hunting buddy for several years after she first arrived in the US, and she thinks of him as the big brother she never had; that's one of the reasons that keeps Dean from taking Ian's head off, because he knows that if he did, Ronnie would come after him the way he'd go after anybody who murdered Sam.

(As for Ronnie herself, I doubt she'd be much help here; she'd probably just whip out the demon-killing knife she's been working on and test it on Crowley while she had the chance. Bobby would call her 'idjit' for getting blood all over the linen.)

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

"What are you doing here, Fic?" asked Sam as the nun hugged her little brothers.

"I'm here on compassionate leave," Fic explained. "I told the Mother House it was a family emergency."

"What, telling lies again, Fic?" Dean grinned, "You'll need to confess that one. And you a nun, too."

"Yeah, but only first professed," Fic reminded him. "And it's not exactly untrue." She held up her left hand. "Bride of Christ, remember? I'm married to the Son of God – I'm officially Mrs Jesus. Castiel is also the child of God. Therefore, technically, he's my brother-in-law. Ergo, he's family. Trust me, I'm a nun." She turned to Ian and smiled. "So, who's this?"

After introductions had been made, they took their coffee to the living room table, where Bobby filled them in on the strange sickness apparently affecting the angel and the demon upstairs. Sam told them about the lack of progress with the research, and his thought that it resembled descriptions of the Spanish Flu. Dean's main contribution was to add the odd muttered complaint about having a vampire in the house.

"Shaddap, idjit, he's better housebroken than you," tutted Bobby, "So, as you can see, we're fresh outta ideas."

"It's funny that you should mention the Spanish Flu, " commented Ian, "Because the symptoms you're describing sound like classical influenza at the more unpleasant end of the scale. And yes," he added sadly, "I treated – and lost – many patients during it."

"I remember that from epidemiology," Fic chimed in, "Global conditions were just right after the First World War, human health all over Europe was compromised after four years of bad nutrition, and the strain of the virus just happened to be about the worst combination of neuraminidase and haemagglutinin you could pack into a flu virus."

"And back then, it was completely normal for any armed forces base to be raising its own animals for slaughter nearby," added Ian. "Chiefly these were pigs and chickens, which were easier and cheaper to raise quickly in larger numbers than cattle or sheep."

"The two perfect vectors to incubate and recombine a flu virus, then pass it to humans," mused Sam.

"Absolutely," Fic agreed. "And it was most lethal amongst healthy young and middle-aged adults, traditionally the demographic most resistant to the flu."

"Really?" Dean didn't sound convinced.

"We know now that the H1N1 virus causes a huge over-reaction of the immune system," Ian told them, "Referred to as a cytokine storm. Sends your immune system into overdrive, so it ends up overwhelming your own body – the young and healthy have the most robust immune systems, so they were most robustly beaten to death by their own immune response."

Fic laughed, and shook her head. "The lecturer said that if she believed in fairies, she could almost believe that the Bad Fairy took advantage of the worldwide situation, introduced a particularly nasty strain, then sat back to watch the fun pan out, because if she'd wanted to start a worldwide pandemic without putting in too much effort it's exactly how she'd have done it." She paused. "Actually, you'd be surprised at how often bioscientists sit around and think about how they'd deploy biological warfare – they always seemed to think it was an amusing intellectual exercise, it scared the hell out of me…"

Bobby, Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"A perfect storm, huh?" Bobby said, almost to himself.

"A coincidental conjunction of events," added Sam grimly, "And a particularly lethal virus just happens to be the one that springs up when the conditions are all just right."

"Ohhhhh, it's exactly the sort of thing he'd do," growled Dean. "And killin' off the people who were supposed to be most resistant? That'd just be icing on the cake. Hilarious icing, from his point of view."

"Dafuq?" yipped Fic, looking as bewildered as Ian.

Bobby sighed heavily. "You'll have to excuse us, Fic," he explained, "We're Hunters. And Hunters tend to be suspicious sumbitches."

"Well, yes," Ian said cautiously. "Not so much a job requirement as a survival trait. The term used for describing a Hunter who isn't adequately suspicious of everything is 'the deceased'."

"Exactly," Bobby stated firmly, "So here we are, suspicious ass Hunters, who happen to be depressin'ly familiar with the way the mind of a certain demon works." His eyes rolled to the ceiling.

Understanding dawned on Fic's face. "You think… you think Crowley might've had a hand in starting the Spanish Flu epidemic?" she sounded incredulous. "It killed more people than the war that preceded it!"

"I got no proof, just a suspicion," Bobby rumbled grimly. "You know your cop's 'invisible whiskers'? Well, I got the Huntin' equivalent, and they're twitchin' fit to get me airborne. He'd been a demon for more than two centuries by then, and was well on his way up the greasy pole."

"It would appeal to his sense of… stylish scheming," Sam theorised, "Start a war? Anybody can do that – you don't need a demon, we have plenty of humans who are willing to do that at pretty much any time – but start a pandemic? Take what's there and give it a nudge here, a push there, improve the chances of the worst case scenario playing out, that takes flair. If you were out to impress a superior, that'd be a hell of a dot point on a demon's CV: 'That other underling who just went and started a war? No imagination, no class. Look at me, with much less effort I can kill more humans in twelve months than he did in four years, and I can do it with finesse, the scalpel beats the sledgehammer, give me that promotion!'."

"And he's got form," Dean added. "Messin' with viruses. Croatoan, anybody?"

"All right, well, let's run with this theory for a minute," suggested Ian. "Let's suppose that Crowley intentionally engineered the 1918 pandemic – or, at least, he took deliberate action to make a potentially bad situation much worse. Why would he, himself, be having symptoms now, nearly an earthly century later?"

"Karma finally caught up with him?" Dean suggested brightly in a tone indicating that he didn't really believe it, but he wanted it to be real very very badly indeed.

"If that was the case, why would it affect Castiel as well?" reasoned Fic. "From what you've told me of him, he's been doing his absolute best to be, well, the best possible angel he can be. Didn't you say he even upbraids any other angel who complains about having Danael in Reception correct their reports with her Red Pen Of Fury, because no matter how pedantic she is he won't tolerate anybody being mean about her?"

"And that's what we come back to," Ian reminded them, "A demon, and an angel, showing symptoms of a human disease. The whole point of being a diabolical or celestial being is that you are not prey to the slings and arrows of outrageous physiology: a dead meatsuit can't catch a cold, and a willing vessel is sustained and protected by the inherent Grace of the angel."

"So they have the _symptoms_ of the Spanish flu," Bobby reiterated, "But the _actual_ Spanish flu, the virus as it killed millions of people, couldn't infect them."

"So how do you get a human virus to infect a demon, and an angel?" Sam wondered out loud. "How do you get a virus to jump to a different vector, where it can't exist?"

Fic scowled. "You can't," she said, "Unless there's a spontaneous mutation or recombination that enables the virus to latch onto a different species of cell. Or…"

"Or…?" prompted Dean.

"You engineer it," Fic continued grimly. "You get a strain with some of the properties you want, then you add on the extras."

Dean blinked. "You do laboratory lego with viruses?" he asked.

"Think of it more as editing," Fic shrugged. "You can cut and paste the bits you do or don't want. The point is, you mess with it in a test tube until you get it to do what you want."

"So, do you think that Crowley might've been messing around with, what, the Hellside equivalent of a, a… biological weapon?" asked Ian.

"But how do you get a virus from Planet Earth to infect a demon, or an angel?" persisted Sam.

"No idea," shrugged Fic, "But they might've come up with something. I mean, how many biochemists, geneticists, doctors, and people with relevant experience must they have by now? There's gotta be a certain percentage of any profession who are complete assholes who deserve to go to Hell…"

"Except politicians," grinned Dean, "They all go, one hundred percent. Lawyers, too." Sam scowled. "See, Sammy, I keep tellin' you that I saved you from a fate worse than death."

"And even a person who's been Damned relatively recently, say, the last twenty years, since the advent of molecular biology as a mainstream discipline, has had a lot longer in Hell-time to work on a project like that," Bobby opined. "With the occult resources of Hell at their disposal, who knows what they could cook up?"

"Well, look on the bright side," Dean stretched luxuriantly and cracked his knuckles, "While he's in this state, beatin' answers out of him will not only be easier, it will be fun…"

"That won't work," Bobby grunted. "You know what he's like, he'll deny it point blank, even if it's true. And if he doesn't want to talk, he'll just disappear."

"Could we come up with some test for a, uh, demonically engineered microbe?" asked Sam.

"Unlikely," Fic shook her head, "Virology is a specialised field, not something you can readily do in your kitchen." She looked thoughtful. "But if it's intel you're after, there might be a way to get His Majesty to fess up what he knows…"

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"You're a thoroughly irritating pillock, you know that?" rasped Crowley, reaching for the tissues again.

"I am not intentionally acting to annoy you," Castiel replied hoarsely, "I am doing my best to muffle my coughing, and minimise the snoring, but my vessel's head and airways are very congested, as I think you well understand."

"Not that!" Crowley snapped listlessly. "It's the way you just, just, just lie there and take it!"

Castiel blinked blearily at his roomie. "Crowley," he began in a careful tone, "I believe that you are far more thoroughly versed in human expression and idiom than I will ever be, and yet on this one occasion I feel obliged to point out that what you just said has the most… inappropriate connotations – the relationship between Dean and I is _agape_ , purely platonic in nature…"

"Not that!" the demon sounded peevish, then paused thoughtfully. "I mean the way you are being so ridiculously stoic and uncomplaining about this whole thing! Angel of the Lord my arse, anybody would think you were a Zen monk." He paused to cough. "And even if you were getting down and dirty, I can't see Mr Too Sexy For This Planet being happy with somebody who was lying back and thinking of England. Or Heaven, as the case may be. He does seem to take pride in his ability to, uh, entertain his horizontal partners."

"He does not always fornicate whilst horizontal," Castiel noted. "There have been plenty of instances where he and the woman concerned were…"

"You know, ordinarily, being the King of Hell, I'd be all in favour of a run-down of Squirrel's adventures in hiding his acorn," Crowley interrupted, "What with Lust being one of the Deadlies and all, but given the way I'm feeling right now, I think I'd really rather you didn't." He turned to look at Castiel. "And I didn't mean to imply that you would be a dead loss in the sack. I'm sure you would be extremely expressive. 'Oh oh oh, touch my pinions again, no that's not my angel blade I am just very glad to see you, oh Dean oh Dean I want to see you wearing my trench coat and nothing els-OW!"

A small, bright blue spark of energy zipped across the room and hit Crowley's ear with a humorous _tzzzzzwip_ noise.

"Did you just smite me?" demanded the ailing demon, "Did you? You did! You did just smite me!"

"Be grateful that I am feeling so unwell," cautioned Castiel, "Otherwise you might now be calling to ask Bobby to assist you in locating your ear, which would be somewhere on the floor."

There was a knock on the door. "You fellas decent?" asked Bobby's voice.

"Unfortunately, I am far too unwell to be anything but," Crowley called before honking vigorously into the latest handful of tissues.

"Please come in, Bobby," said Castiel hoarsely.

"Okay, so, I've called in a couple of subject matter experts…"

Felicity made her way into the room, where she greeted Castiel and bobbed him a quick genuflection.

When Crowley caught sight of her, he let out a little squeak and clutched the bedclothes to his chin. "What's she here for?" he demanded.

"Hello Crowley," Fic gave him a smile, "I was a practising doctor, you know, and Bobby has called me in to see if I can help to figure out what's wrong with you, and how we might go about fixing it."

"You're not coming near me!" The King of Hell insisted, waving a used tissue as if it were an anti-nun talisman.

"Crowley, she's here to help," Sam rolled his eyes.

"Is that what you call it?" griped the demon, glaring at the nun. "The last time we met, you punched me in the nose, kneed me in the balls, and threw sanctified wee over me!"

"Well, you had just sent your minions to try to kill me," Fic chided gently, "So it's no wonder I was a bit ticked off."

"Stop your whinin', ya idjit," instructed Bobby, "She's here to offer her help to fix this godawful mess." He eyed the herds of wild tissues roaming the floor. "Before we all disappear under a pile of destroyed rainforest."

"Promise you won't hit me," Crowley demanded sullenly.

"I promise," replied Fic solemnly. "Nun's honour."

"Or knee me in the cobblers."

"Absolutely not."

"Or douse me with consecrated bodily fluids."

"Pinky swear," she wiggled the appropriate digit at him.

"I don't believe you," the King of Hell almost pouted, "Why are you being so nice to me? I'm a demon!"

"Yes, you are." Smiling compassionately, Fic sat on the edge of his bed. "A demon. Which is just another word for a sinner." He glared at her suspiciously. "Look, Crowley, when I first met you, I was just a novice – I've learned a lot since then, and now I've taken my first vows, I'm more… nunly."

"Nunly?" echoed Crowley doubtfully.

"That's right," she told him. "And one of the main messages that the Son of God brought us is the message of compassion, and forgiveness. We are commanded to visit and tend the sick, as a Corporal Work of Mercy. Hate the sin, not the sinner," she added knowingly.

The wariness didn't leave Crowley's eyes. "Don't you dare pray at me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Or bless me."

"No blessing, got it."

"Or petition your deadbeat Father-In-Law for my redemption."

"Nope."

Crowley cocked his head. "Don't the Corporal Works of Mercy also instruct you to feed the hungry?"

"And give drink to the thirsty," Fic nodded. "Are you hungry, Crowley?"

"Well…" the King of Hell looked at her hopefully. "I might feel better if I could just have a tot of something single malt…"

"Alcohol is not a good idea," stated Ian, "Given your condition, and the flu meds you're already dosed with, alcoholic beverages are contraindicated."

"But if I put it into a hot lemon drink, that doesn't count," Fic declared firmly, "A tot in a lemon drink when you're sick isn't drinking, it's medicinal." She patted Crowley's leg through the blankets and smiled. "Do you think you could manage a piece of grilled cheese?"

* * *

Florence the plot bunny loves your reviews, so feed them to her, because Reviews Are The Hot Lemon Drink And Grilled Cheese On The Couch Of Life!


	6. Chapter 6

Actually, yes, bioscience types do often sit around discussing how we'd go about it if we were given the job of creating a biological weapon. And whilst some of my colleagues would opt for a virus, I'm more interested in the DIY-kitchen bioterrorism thang, which really rules out the specialised equipment needed for that sort of culture and containment. I have been known to set up improvised equipment and experiments in my kitchen, just to see if it can be done. Funnily enough, it often can. I haven't managed to build my own high-speed ultracentrifuge yet, but you can get a pretty good benchtop job bodged together with a Dremel. I like to present my findings at group meetings, just to see the look on my boss's face.

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

Ian set about examining his patients after Crowley insisted that Bobby remain in the room and Gedda remain in his lap to chaperone. His Hellside Majesty was not a patient patient.

"He's not a proper doctor," Crowley complained between coughs, "He's dead! I don't want to be examined by a reanimated corpse!"

"Well, technically, it would be one reanimated corpse examining another," Ian pointed out patiently.

"Crowley was not convinced. "What are you doing doctoring anyway? You should be out drinking like a judge, screwing like a politician and killing like a Middle Eastern dictator who doesn't like the way his floors are being mopped!"

"Right now, I should be in bed," Ian replied, "And you should be reigning in Hell. Unlife's a funny old thing, isn't it?"

Crowley was like a dog with a bone, or possibly a political candidate with a donation – he wasn't about to let go. "I mean, who do you think you are, a character out of those stupid _Twilight_ books?"

"I can assure you I do not sparkle in daylight," Ian said with the tolerant serenity that seemed to affect Crowley the way blood usually affects a hungry shark. "Nor do I stalk insipid young women, or run up trees for no readily discernible reason."

"Just let him do his job, asshat," instructed Crowley gruffly. "God's tits, I haven't heard grizzling like this since Sam was teething."

"These symptoms can be exhausting, Bobby, so it's perfectly normal for someone with flu this bad to become tired and cranky," Ian noted.

"I'm not bloody cranky!" griped Crowley crankily.

"Well, let me put it this way," Bobby went on, "Either you let the doc here listen to your heart and lungs to see if they're showin' any symptoms while they're inside you, or I'll go and get an axe, and we can pull 'em out and have a good look at 'em in daylight. You can diagnose this post mortem, can't you?"

"Oh, yes," Ian answered, "The characteristic gross anatomy of the lung pathology is unmissable in the case of death following complications arising from severe influenza; the inflammation and fluid collection presents a typical appearance of enlargement with redness and swelling, and…"

With a put-upon sigh, Crowley began to unbutton the very fetching flannel pyjamas he was wearing. "Very well," he grumbled, "But I wish to go on record that I am doing this under protest."

"And I wish to go on record sayin' that I don't give a rat's ass," snapped Bobby.

"So then, you monstrous medico, have at it…yeeeeeee!" went the King of Hell as the stethoscope made contact with his chest, "What do you do with that thing, dunk it in ice water before use?"

"Sorry," grinned Ian ruefully, "Cold hands – no circulation of my own, which is why I have to get my thrills vicariously listening to other people's."

"Stop complainin', ya idjit," growled Bobby, "I didn't hear Feathers complainin' when it was his turn."

"Yes, but he's clearly busy channelling Zeno," sniffled Crowley resentfully.

"The stoic philosophy, although pagan, had much to recommend it," rasped Castiel, "The basic tenet was that living life simply and virtuously would promote happiness."

"Right, so, one ancient idiot is channelling another ancient idiot," grumbled Crowley.

Ian was also apparently channelling the ancient Greek philosopher – either that, or he just had the patience of a saint. "Crowley, it's absolutely imperative that I listen to your lungs, in order to get the fullest clinical picture of what is wrong with you," he explained.

Crowley shot a mouthful of something that was presumably Scottish Gaelic at him; with a roll of his eyes, Ian replied in the same tongue, if a rather more calm tone.

"I'm guessin' that he's not explainin' his symptoms to ya," chuckled Bobby.

"He has just suggested that I do something with my own person to my own person that, I have to confess, would be entirely impossible for someone who had not made a deal for extra inches below the belt," replied Ian serenely. "Of course, what an informed and consenting adult demon does in the privacy of his own Perdition is nobody else's business…"

"One day, you _will_ die," Crowley muttered, "Everything dies eventually, including vampires, and when that day comes, I will send Gedda on a special mission to drag you to Hell."

"That is not a determined course of fate," Castiel spoke up. "He will not necessarily go to Hell, just because he is a vampire. Given that he has tried so hard to lead a good life, there is every reason for him to hope for redemption in my Father's Kingdom."

Ian turned to look at him. "Really?" he asked. "Even if over the years I have regularly fantasised about strangling some of my apprentices?"

Castiel offered him a weak smile. "Thinking about it is not doing it," he rasped. "Otherwise, Bobby would be Damned a hundred times over, given the number of times he has threatened to wring Dean's neck or tear Sam a new one." He paused. "He has never specified a new what, but from the context it is clear that he is making a dire threat."

Crowley's face brightened a little. "You know, Bobby, a rather interesting thought presents itself, love," he said somewhat more happily. "If you were to, oh, for instance, push that pretty thug under his own car, that would remove a most vexing individual from this otherwise rather enjoyable plane of existence, and as soon as you got Downstairs, I would want to recruit you immediately to a senior management position – I'm prepared to wait for you, Bobby…" he sagged when he saw the murderous expression on the old Hunter's face. "Well, you can't blame me for trying," he sighed.

"Well, if I ever am dragged to The Pit, I could have a worse escort," the undead doctor smiled, scratching the little Hellpoodle behind the ears as she pulled a doggy grin up at him.

"Stop that!" demanded Crowley, spluttering again partly due to his illness and partly in outrage, "Stop that at once! Do not pet the ferocious bloodthirsty Hellhound!"

"Can I hear raised voices?" asked Sister Felicity, entering the room with a plate and mug.

"His Majesty here is bein' shy," Bobby rolled his eyes.

"That _person_ ," Crowley pronounced in the tone an elderly maiden aunt might use if forced to refer to something as hideously unsavoury as a store-bought cake, "Is attempting to freeze me into submission with his instrument of torture."

Ian brandished the stethoscope by way of demonstration.

"Give it here," Fic put down the plate and mug, "I may be a little out of practice, I think I can probably be trusted to know crackles when I hear them." She sat on the bed next to Crowley and smiled, rubbing the end of the instrument against her habit. "I promise that no holiness will rub off," she said firmly, "But we really do have to listen to your chest, Crowley, then you can have your grilled cheese."

"I thought traditionally it was a jelly bean," Crowley griped half-heartedly, but he held still whilst Fic finished the examination.

"Rales doesn't begin to describe it, I'm afraid," she said somewhat grimly. "Bilateral basal. That, or he's got a hundred tiny scuba diving castanet players in there."

"What does that mean?" asked Crowley anxiously.

Sister Fic turned her most reassuring bedside manner on him. "It means that there is fluid in your lungs where it really shouldn't be," she told him. "That's why it's so uncomfortable if you try to lie down completely flat." She stood up and performed pillow plumping. "So, let's get you upright for your lunch."

"So, what's the diagnosis, docs?" asked Bobby.

"The same for both of them," confirmed Ian. "Prostration, fever, ENT symptoms, aches and pains, blood pressure up, classical symptoms of influenza. And fluid accumulation in the lower lungs – symptom of a nasty strain." He looked at his patients. "I have to tell you, it looks astonishingly like the clinical picture of what I saw in 18-19. Except it can't be because you are not exactly human."

"Pot to kettle, bloodsucker," sniped Crowley as Fic fussed over his pillows, and handed him the plate. "Oh, at least if I was human, I could look forward to death."

"Let's not make jokes about that," Ian said seriously, "Because if you _were_ human, it might well have killed you by now. Modern day medicine and an ICU might save you in this century, but if you'd presented to me back in the day, I'd have assessed you as expectant."

Crowley paused with his grilled cheese half way to his mouth. "So, I'd come into your clinic with all the symptoms of being about to die of the mother of all sniffles, and you'd take one look and decide that I was pregnant? Your brain is clearly as dead as your body, _blaigeard_ , except it's actually started to rot."

"Expect _ant_ , asshat, not expect _ing_ ," Bobby qualified, going on to explain with a small amount of vicious glee. "It means, aint nothin' more to be done for ya, you're gonna die regardless."

"We never put it that way, of course," Ian explained, "The instruction to the staff was to make the patient comfortable, and commend him to God."

Crowley dropped his toast. "What?" he whatted in alarm. "Are you saying… are you saying that this is going to… kill me?"

"Definitely not," said Fic firmly, "Because firstly, you are not actually human, and secondly, we won't let it."

"Is this any danger to my boys, Doc?" Bobby asked anxiously. "Or their sister?"

"I don't think so," Ian forestalled his worry, "Because given the amount of, uh, fomites that Castiel alone was generating just on the trip to get him here…"

"Fomites?" asked Crowley suspiciously. "What are fomites? It sounds like a football team from the Continent, or maybe something unsavoury dished up at special occasions by Mongolian nomads…"

"In this case, it's a polite way of saying breathing in what somebody else has sneezed out," Fic told him. "That's how flu spreads. Don't think about it. Eat you toast."

"…If it was possible for a human to catch it, Dean would've come down with symptoms by now," Ian finished. "No, this isn't a human form of virus."

"Do you have any theories about what the causative agent might be, doctor?" asked Castiel.

"At this stage, no," Ian replied, closing his bag, "We have no information about anything that might cause a human-like illness in what are, frankly, a pair of powerful celestial/diabolical beings."

"But we will figure something out," Fic assured the demon, passing his lemon drink to him. "Now, take your medicine. Doctor's orders."

Crowley sipped at the drink, and threw her a grateful look. "Thank you, sister," he said. "I suppose I should be grateful that at least one of you has something resembling a bedside manner."

"Well, what do you expect from a Presbyterian?" sniffed the nun disdainfully. "Heretics, the lot of them." She patted his leg again. "Just send Gedda down if you need anything."

"I will." He bit into his grilled cheese. "Oh, Lucifer's bum, even my teeth hurt…"

"I'll fetch you some paracetamol," the nun said, "And maybe we can cut your toast into little triangles, that will make it easier to eat…"

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"I don't know how they do it," Bobby stated in the kitchen afterwards as he had some lunch with the Winchesters.

"Ian doesn't do it at all," Dean said, "Which is just totally weird, considerin' that if he used the Sean Connery accent he'd get more tail waved in front of him than the average dog walker."

"Jesus, Dean, does everything have to be about sex?" complained Sam.

"Everything _is_ about sex, Sammy," Dean grinned in his most infuriatingly cheerful fashion, "When you get right down to it, everything people do, in the end, it's all about sex, or food. Or sex and food. You can have a lot of fun combining the two. There was this girl, about a year ago, in California, and she was training as a chocolatier, and…"

"Not that, idjit," Bobby growled, his tone suggesting that he'd had about all the smartassery he was prepared to tolerate in one day, "I mean, the way our two medicos can be in the same room as Crowley, put up with him bein' an insufferably insufferable patient, and stay polite. They didn't even look like they wanted to slap him."

"Well, Ian has had a long time to perfect his bedside manner," Sam pointed out.

"And he Hunted with Ronnie for several years," Dean added, "Anybody who could do that is abnormally patient to start with. Which just makes him more abnormal than ever."

"Dean, according to you, anybody who meets Ronnie and doesn't immediately want to decapitate her, shoot her or throw her off a cliff is abnormal," Sam reminded him.

"Well, yeah," Dean nodded judiciously, "She has that effect on people."

"If we could just leave aside the lunatic homicidal fantasies for a moment," Bobby interrupted, "And remember that we've got two people upstairs who are kinda important to keepin' their parts of the grand scheme o' things running, but can't do that while they've apparently got some turbo-charged occult form of the Spanish Flu." He jerked a thumb at the living room. "So, the docs are in there, checkin' out some more specialised references…"

"Is that what doctors are calling it these days?" Dean asked archly.

"Dean!" Sam snapped, giving his big brother a hearty Bitchface Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "That's our sister, a nun, you're talking about!"

"He demonstrated his original accent for her, you know," Dean waggled his eyebrows, "I swear, she blushed. I'm tellin' ya, it's the Sean Connery effect, if anything could get her to break the habit, so to speak…"

" _Dean!"_

"Well, a Winchester who gets even less than you, it aint natural, Sam."

"You are such a jerk."

Bobby rolled his eyes, convinced that he was going to have to intervene to head off a bickerfest, when there was a knock at the front door. Muttering dire threats of neck-wringing and new-one-tearing, he followed the dogs to answer it.

"Hello, Mr Singer!" Orgle the fiend stood on the porch, looking somewhat worried. "I'm so sorry to interrupt you, but I need to talk to you. About Mr Crowley. Is he getting better yet? Without him, things are starting to get a bit, well, disorganised back home."

"That's okay, Orgle," Bobby ushered the fiend in and shut the door before the Widow Witherspoon could train her binoculars on his particularly peculiar visitor. "Go on through to the living room, and you can tell me…"

Before he could finish, there was another knock. Bemused, he turned back, and opened it again.

The elderly lady on his porch was sensibly-but-well-dressed, carried herself with a ramrod posture, and gazed up at him with fiercely intelligent eyes.

"Senior Librarian Danael!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here?"

"Hello, Bobby," she smiled at him, "I am so terribly sorry to intrude on your time, but there is a matter of some import that I feel I must discuss with you."

"Uh-huh," he mused, looking speculatively at Orgle, who gave the Senior Librarian And Archivist Of Heaven a cheerful smile and waved with several of his paws. "Let me guess – is it something to do with a missing, uh, CEO?"

"Well, yes," confirmed Danael. "Young Castiel, whom as you know has been left with oversight of Father's Kingdom until such time as He chooses to return, has been absent from Heaven for some time now – matters are starting to become… disordered without his oversight."

"Right," Bobby sighed glumly, "Well, Orgle and Danael, come on in to the living room – SAM, DEAN, WE GOT COMPANY, PUT COFFEE ON! – and I'll see if I can explain."

* * *

Whoever would've guessed that Crowley would be so high maintenance? So, unrest is brewing, both above and below stairs. Feed Florence the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Jelly Beans Handed Out For Good Behaviour In The Doctor's Office Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Crowley looked at his phone without much enthusiasm and decided that Kiddy Crush (a game very similar to Candy Crush, with one small – but in his opinion, hilarious – difference) would be too taxing. He let out a listless sigh, and turned to Castiel, who lay back quietly with his eyes closed.

"Oi, Clarence, are you asleep?"

"That is a ridiculous question to ask," replied Castiel without opening his eyes. "If I was asleep, I would be unable to confirm that I was."

"Well what are you doing?" asked Crowley, "Meditating? I'm warning you, you so much as go 'Om' and I'll, I'll, I'll crawl over there and steal your tissues."

"I am seeking Revelation," Castiel replied, "And I would prefer that you did not disturb me."

"I wonder what Squirrel would make of that, if he was here," Crowley wondered. "He likes to seek revelation too, although it's normally with a young lady and what he wants her to reveal is her…"

"What I mean is, I am asking my Father for help," Castiel cut him off, pausing to give Crowley his sternest Eye Sex Stare Of Doom, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by his watering red eyes.

"Huh, fat lot of good that will do," humphed Crowley, "Himself doesn't cure plagues, He sends them. You know, river of blood, hail of fire, frogs, locusts, boils…" he wiggled uncomfortably. "Actually, I wish you hadn't made me think about that one."

Castiel looked concerned. "Do you have furuncules, Crowley?"

"Well, not as such," Crowley replied, "I don't think there's more than one. Maybe two. Three at the most."

"You should inform Doctor Gregson, or Sister Felicity at once," Castiel told the demon.

"No!" yelped Crowley, "And don't you dare, either! I mean it about the tissues!"

"They cannot research the ailment affecting us unless they are in possession of as much evidence as possible," Castiel reasoned. "They must be made aware of any new symptoms that manifest."

"No," moaned Crowley, "They'll laugh at me! They'll all laugh at me! Dean bloody Winchester will make smug jokes about it!"

"Anything you tell a doctor is in confidence," Castiel supplied, "And Doctor Gregson is an honourable individual – he trained in an era when medical practitioners formally took the Hyppocratic Oath. And in my experience, Dean will make smug jokes about anything."

"No," Crowley pouted. "Anyway, my point is, petitioning your old man for help won't help. He's not a lover, He's a smiter."

"I am not asking Father for a cure," Castiel corrected him, "It would be more accurate to say I am asking for advice; I have more immediate concerns than my own well-being."

"Oh, there you go again," Crowley rolled his eyes, "You truly are insufferably selfless sometimes."

"Strangely enough, Dean often says words to that effect," Castiel mused.

"Well, he's right," Crowley declared. "On this one very specific occasion."

"I am seeking Revelation as to how best to manage the oversight of Father's Kingdom whilst I am incapacitated. I am not fit to attend the duties I would normally perform, besides which, I must remain quarantined from other angels as a precaution against spreading this condition."

"I think I understand why your big brother exploded you," Crowley muttered. "I'm trying not to think about what is going on in Hell as we speak – if that fat cow Ghazoria gets her arse on my bidet, I'll never dislodge her. Especially if she gets a buttock stuck in the pot. It's all right for you, if you are deposed by another angel, you'll just get a smaller desk: if I get deposed, I'll be turned into a sulphurous little smear on the sand in the nearest imps' litter tray."

"Perhaps if Father grants me Revelation, a solution to Hell's temporary loss of administrative oversight will also suggest itself."

"Yeah, right," sighed Crowley gloomily. "Well, happy Revelating. Tell your Dad I said sod off." He looked at his phone, and decided he might try a game of Plague Inc., at least if his headache didn't get any worse – if he was going to feel that unwell, he might as well try to cheer himself up by pretending to kill off the entire human population with a hideous disease.

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Orgle shook hands carefully with Danael, and Dean served up coffee whilst Bobby explained the sick room situation.

"And so, here they are, darkenin' my doorstep," he finished up.

"This is most irregular, Bobby," said Danael, smiling briefly as Sam offered her a plate of cookies. "An angel contracting what appears to be a disease? I have never heard of such a thing. I suppose I could search the Archives…"

"I've had a look in our records too," Orgle contributed from where he was balanced on the end of the sofa, carefully holding the ugly vase he was using as a coffee mug. "There's nothing like this. Of course, I've had to be, well, sneaky about it – if any of Hell's Hierarchy find out that Mr Crowley is in any way out of action, they'll all start fighting about being the new ruler of Hell. Some of them are starting to ask questions as it is."

"That is also a problem that Heaven is facing," Danael went on, "Not the hostile takeover, but the lack of clear and confident oversight." Her face became rueful. "Castiel may be young, but the time he has spent with the Winchesters has taught him things about free will that other angels just do not understand." Her expression then became grim. "And if there is war in Hell, and an ambitious member of Hell's nobility decides to ride a wave of aggression and attempt an assault against Heaven, we will be less able to organise our defences without a leader, an overseer, in Father's absence. It is, unfortunately, not something that we angels take to readily."

"But you are very good at organising things, Senior Librarian Danael," Orgle pointed out, "Could you not take over if you had to? All the other angels do what you say," he added.

"Good grief, I could not possibly leave the Archives unattended!" Danael sounded scandalised by the very thought.

"Even if there was war with Hell?" asked Sam curiously.

"Who would correct the reports?" Heaven's Senior Librarian posited. "Who would ensure that the filing was done in a timely fashion? Who would keep order in the library? Who would ensure that the Archives were maintained accurately?"

"Uh, if you had a horde of demons tryin' to burn down the Pearly Gates, wouldn't that kind of, you know," Dean waved a hand uncertainly, "Take priority over, uh, gettin' the books back on the shelves, so to speak?"

Danael gave him a look as if he'd just suggested that she set fire to the Celestial Library herself, after chopping up God's Throne to use as kindling. "Even in times of conflict, _standards_ must be _maintained_ , Dean Winchester," she said, standing on her considerable dignity. "Just because The Eternal Enemy was attempting to invade Father's realm, that would be no excuse to shirk the administrative requirements!"

"Well, what about the Archangels?" Dean went on, "Why not get one of those winged dicks to earn their keep for a change?"

"Dean," muttered Sam, shooting his brother a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't _Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), "Being rude about the brothers of a senior angel, a Virtue, who can turn you into a little pile of ash if she wants to, not a good idea."

"Indeed," Danael gave Dean an icy smile, "However, Father's Firstborn are about other business in accordance with His will: Michael is still working as a police dog, Lucifer is putting on weight as a Chihuahua, and Raphael is now assistant manager at a donkey sanctuary."

"What about Gabriel?" asked Fic, "Couldn't he step into the breach? He has wielded a flaming sword, after all."

Danael's expression was eloquent. "Sister, I would as soon put an alcoholic in charge of a distillery," she pronounced. "Gabriel has all the sense of responsibility of a three-year-old human with a diagnosed attention deficit condition. As if his pranks are not bad enough when he _does_ bother to present himself – the time he inflated a sheep's bladder, and placed it under the upholstery of Father's Throne…"

Dean's eyes bugged. "Are you sayin' that Gabriel, what, invented the… whoopee cushion? And he whoopied God?"

"That's not the worst of it," Danael radiated disapproval. "Do NOT ask about the platypus fiasco."

"The platypus fiasco?" echoed Sam.

"Do NOT ask about it," stated Heaven's Senior Librarian sternly.

"And I suppose that askin' your Dad to come home and keep order in His own house while Cas is sick is a complete waste of breath," mused Dean, "I'd hate to interrupt His sabbatical, or whatever it is that He's doin' while Cas is holdin' the fort…"

"Let's just take it as read that we can rule out the funtimes foursome," Bobby cut in smoothly before Danael could strangle, spank or smite Dean, "And that, uh, Himself is otherwise occupied for the foreseeable future. Best case scenario, we find a cure for this, this, this whatever it is, and get Feathers and Fartface back on their feet and back to the grindstone."

"Except, we still have no idea what we're dealing with," Dean reminded him.

"Sounds like keeping order in both Heaven and Hell might be the immediate priority of the moment," Sam pointed out. "If it all goes south badly enough, if some senior demon decides to try to take over, then the fighting could spill out into our reality, and we'll have something even more pressing to worry about."

"I know the matter has been on Castiel's mind," Bobby said, "And Crowley's too – there's always at least three members of Hell's Hierarchy watchin' for an opening to depose him with extreme prejudice."

"Maybe we should discuss this with them," suggested Sister Fic, "If there is anybody best suited to take over, they might have some insight into whom to appoint."

"Huh, Cas can barely eat his soup at this point." Bobby couldn't help but notice the concern in Dean's voice; he saw Sam smile, and even Danael's expression softened a little at the note of worry. "We should be fixin' this for him, not buggin' him when he's supposed to be resting."

"Well, it aint safe for Danael or Orgle to go in there, just in case," Bobby stated firmly, "Not when we have no idea whether this could spread to other celestial or diabolical beings."

"I haven't got it," Orgle pointed out. "Neither has Phlegmgob." At the mention of his name, the little imp emerged from Orgle's pelt, scampered to his shoulder, and waved and farted a greeting to everybody.

Then he sneezed.

The force of the blast blew the little creature off Orgle's shoulder like a missile; the imp shot backwards through the air, whacking into the wall then sliding to the floor.

"Phlegmgob!" shrieked Orgle, kneeling carefully to pick up the tiny thing.

Phlegmgob gave him a sunny smile, then burst into a fit of coughing.

"He's got it!" Worry oozed from Orgle as he cradled the imp in two of his massive paws, "He's got it! He's sick!"

"Now, don't you go panickin' on me," instructed Bobby firmly, "So far, whatever this is, it doesn't seem to be able to kill anybody who aint human."

Orgle didn't seem to hear him. "What do I do, Mr Singer?" asked the fiend, tears in some of his eyes, "What do I do?"

"Same as we do for our other patients," Ian cut in, putting a reassuring hand on one of Orgle's less grotty-looking arms, "We make him comfortable, and then look after him while we figure out what's going on. You can stay here with him, until we do that."

"I shall quarantine myself in my office until such time as I am satisfied that I am not showing symptoms," announced Danael, standing up.

"Will that be sufficient?" Sam sounded worried, "Maybe you shouldn't go back to Heaven at all, if you might've been exposed."

Danael gave him an indulgent smile. "I shall put a notice indicating that I am in the process of carrying out an audit of the Incident Reports for the last few millennia," she told him, "I can guarantee you, Sam, I will remain absolutely undisturbed."

"You get back in touch if you feel so much as a heavenly sniffle, or whatever the equivalent is," Bobby said. With a solemn nod, Danael took wing.

"I don't blame her for not wanting to sit in the big chair," Dean commented, "I mean, being in charge of a library is bad enough – being in charge of a whole Heavenful of multidimensional wavelengths of celestial assholeness, that sounds to me more like something that you'd get as a punishment for being a serious sinner."

"It's the Politician Paradox," Sam observed gloomily, "The people who actively seek office are probably the ones you least want to get the job – the people who don't really want the gig would do it better."

"Well, we'd best go discuss this with them upstairs," decided Bobby, "The longer things are left ungoverned, the more ungovernable they're likely to become."

"Could you examine Phlegmgob, Doctor Gregson?" asked Orgle in a trembling voice.

Ian couldn't help but smile. "Of course," he assured the fiend, "Give me a hand here, Fic."

"I'll get a lemon drink for Cas, if we need to talk," Dean said, heading for the kitchen, "It seems to help his throat."

"I suppose we should make one for Crowley, too," sighed Sam, following his brother, "Although it won't stop him complaining."

"Sounds like a good idea," agreed Bobby. "Just don't you two idjits put holy water in that asshat's mug; as amusing as it would be, we need him to co-operate on this."

Ignoring the mutinous mutterings of a thwarted prank, he left them to it.

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Resting against his pillows, Castiel closed his eyes, and let his mind tune out the world around him: the murmur of movement and conversation elsewhere in the house, the contented sigh of a snoozing dog, the unmistakeable crackle of brotherly affection between the Winchester brothers downstairs, the occasional chortle from the other bed when Crowley pulled off a particularly effective mutation, he let it all diminish as he concentrated on his search for Revelation.

 _I need Your advice, Father, I am incapacitated, unable to tend to my duties in Your realm, and I don't know what do to, I ask You humbly, show me what I should do…_

He had no doubt that his Father would, somehow, give him an answer. It might not seem obvious, and it might not happen immediately, but he knew, he just _knew_ , that if he would just have faith in his Father, a solution would present itself. All he had to do was be patient, have faith, and wait.

"Oh, bugger!"

He opened his eyes. "Is something wrong, Crowley?"

"Yes, something is very wrong!" complained the demon, scowling at his phone, "About ten percent of the population is resistant to my virus!"

"I don't understand how anyone could find amusement in pretending to kill off the population of the world," Castiel said a little sadly.

"And I don't understand why anyone would waste so much time and effort trying to save it," Crowley shot back snippily. "The hideous stench of compassion that leaks out of you, it's a small mercy that my nose is so stuffy." He peered suspiciously at the angel. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting," replied Castiel, settling into his pillows.

"Waiting?"

"For Revelation," Castiel explained, "I have sought advice from my Father, and now I shall wait for Him to make His will clear."

Crowley let out a short bark of laughter that degenerated into a coughing fit. "Get in line," he wheezed, "People have been asking you dad for help for thousands of years to solve their problems, and hasn't He just fallen over Himself to rush to their aid?"

"I do not question my Father's motives," Castiel murmured with infuriating patience, "Other than to observe that humanity was given free will, and the capacity to use it to work out their own problems."

"Well, it doesn't work like a vending machine, I can tell you that much," Crowley snuffled into a tissue. "Put a prayer in the slot, help drops into the hopper at the bottom. Saying that He works in mysterious ways is putting it politely – you can't just send up a celestial smoke signal and then expect the answer just walk in the door…"

"Hey Cas," Dean put his head around the door, and waved a steaming mug. "You feel up to a lemon drink? Only, we really gotta talk about something… uh, Cas, are you okay?"

"Well, that's a dumb question when you know the answer is that he's not okay at all," Sam pushed into the room behind his brother, holding another mug. "Uh, why is he smiling at you like that?"

Crowley looked at the beaming angel, then at the confused Winchesters, then back again, then he let his eyes roll upward.

"Oh, You must be joking."

* * *

Kudos to **ncsupnatfan** who saw where this was going...

Denziens, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recall that the archangels were sent off to learn more about being brothers and more about humanity in 'Pack Up Your Troubles'. Michael is currently a German Shepherd K9 police officer, and Lucifer is masquerading as Luciano the spoiled Chihuahua. Meanwhile, feed Florence the plot bunny those reviews (just don't dunk them in amphetamines first, plot bunnies on speed are so terribly terribly disrupting to getting anything else done).


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Castiel, Angel of the Lord and Warrior of Heaven, did not, as a rule, smile a lot. This was because he was by nature and inclination the serious and earnest type. Even Uriel, who in his day had been acknowledged as the funniest angel in the garrison, had never elicited what could be interpreted as a belly laugh, hearty guffaw, or screaming donkey impression of amusement from his younger brother Castiel. (He did once provoke a definite grin the time he left an unstable tectonic plate on a forming planet right in Zachariah's path – the celestial equivalent of the banana peel on the ground – but the spectacle of Zachariah's multidimensional self-interference as he lost his balance even had Michael trying hard to keep a straight face.)

In the presence of humans, the lack of smiling was also due to his ground state of a combination of bemusement, confusion and wonder at the way his Father's human children could and did behave. Even in the presence of the Winchesters. Especially in the presence of the Winchesters. No, the only time that Castiel really _really_ smiled was in the presence of his Father.

Which is why Dean found Castiel's beaming smile to be so discombobulating.

"Uh, Cas, are you feverish again?" Dean asked carefully. "Should we get Dr Leech up here?"

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, "I am so pleased to see you."

"Okaaaay," Dean eyed the angel carefully, "Yeah, look, I think you might be delirious, buddy, so I think we gotta get LeStat up here, stat, even…"

"It's worse than you think," Crowley announced gloomily as Sam handed over the mug. "He thinks he's had an idea." He sniffed suspiciously at the lemon drink. "If there's holy water in this, Jolly Green, I will redouble my efforts to deforest the Amazon one tissue at a time…"

"Not me," Castiel corrected him, "My Father."

"Your Father?" Sam echoed, bemused.

"Watch out, Squirrel," Crowley warned, "I'm afraid you've been Revealed to clueless Clarence here."

"I've been…" Dean's eyes bugged. "Cas, what are you doin'? Are you… " he clutched his overshirt around himself. "Look, I know you aint well, but you better not be usin' your angel vision to look at me under my clothes…"

"What's goin' on in here?" demanded Bobby, pushing into the room. "Uh, Cas, why are you starin' at Dean like that?"

"I have just been granted Revelation," Castiel announced calmly, still gazing intently at Dean.

Dean edged behind his little brother. "Ohhhh, not cool, Cas…"

"Wait, wait, he said 'Revelation'," Sam noted, "The way he said it, there's a capital R there." He turned to roll his eyes at his brother. "Don't flatter yourself."

Bobby let out a sigh. "Okay, then, Feathers, why don't you tell us exactly what has been, uh, Revealed?"

"I sought Revelation from my Father," the angel explained, "As to how I should go about dealing with arrangements in His Kingdom whilst I am unable to attend to my stewardship duties. And then… here you are." He turned his disconcerting expression on Sam. "And here, also, is Sam."

Sam eyed the angel warily. "Uh, you know, Dean, I think maybe he might actually be _looking_ looking…"

"Look, as much as I'm in favour of a hint of debauchery any time, any place, that's not what he's getting at," Crowley interrupted sourly. "He thinks that Daddy Dearest is sending hints."

"Hints?" queried Bobby, "What sort of hints?"

"Human Resources Department hints," Crowley replied ominously. "Employment hints. Appointment hints."

"Huh?" went Dean.

Crowley turned to Castiel. "Look, you know how slow he can be on the uptake, are you really sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course," Castiel confirmed, "Because it was my Father's idea."

"What idea?" said Sam.

Castiel turned his beaming smile on Dean once more. "In my absence, Dean, The Righteous Man, shall undertake the oversight of Heaven. And Sam, the Boy King, shall rule in Hell."

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"Well, he's showing similar symptoms to Castiel and Crowley," pronounced Ian – he'd used an infant stethoscope chest piece on the little imp, but Phlegmgob didn't make it any easier as he continued to try to taste the instrument.

"No chewing! No chewing!" instructed Sister Felicity sternly, holding the thermometer in the little creature's mouth. "If you chew it, I warn you, it'll have to go in the other end!" She paused. "Er, do imps even have an other end?"

"Well, Crowley mentioned that they have litter trays, so I suppose the answer is yes," shrugged Ian as the nun consulted the thermometer.

"So, I've got no idea how warm a being native to Hell is supposed to be," she said dubiously, "Given that brimstone – sulphur – is traditionally supposed to boil there, and that happens at more than four hundred degrees. But if he was a dog, this would be elevated." She reached down to scratch Phlegmgob under the chin, and the little imp chittered contentedly before sneezing again. "Oh, er."

Ian pushed one of the ever-present boxes of tissues towards her. "It'll wash off," he said absently, with a doctor's blasé approach to bodily fluids. "So," he looked up at Orgle, who stood by wringing several of his paws anxiously, with his most reassuring Doctor-Is-Here-And-Everything-Will-Be-All-Right expression. "It looks as if he has whatever they have upstairs; but it also looks as though he might be feeling unwell, but the pathology isn't progressing to what might be considered dangerously close to fatal if he was a, well, a mortal creature."

"Can you cure him, doctor?" asked Orgle anxiously.

"Well, we'll have a better idea of that once we figure out exactly what we're dealing with," Ian told him, "But don't worry, big guy, if anything is going to happen, it'll happen to Crowley first, and we can experiment on him."

"I don't think I could approve of experimenting on Mr Crowley," Orgle said, a hint of reproach in his voice.

"Where there's life there's hope, Orgle," Sister Fic said firmly, "So, perhaps we could get this little fella into bed – I think a shoe box would be just the perfect size – but before that, I'm not meaning to be rude, but it might be a good idea for him to have a bath first…"

There were two high-pitched yelps of horror, then both Phlegmgob and Jimi shot under the sofa.

"Nice going, Einstein," observed Ian, bending down and seeing two pairs of eyes peering out anxiously, "You said the b-word in front of a dog!"

"I'm afraid Phlegmgob isn't keen on, you know, getting clean," Orgle contributed. "He's not a show imp, so I don't wash him that often."

Sister Fic sighed, and bent down. "Well, until my nose becomes so stuffy I lose my sense of smell, I'm afraid it's going to be a necessity." she reached under the sofa and grabbed the reluctant bathee, "If you co-operate, I'll get you a cup of tea and a chocolate cookie."

"Uh, is a cup of tea and a chocolate cookie really going to persuade an imp?" Ian didn't sound convinced.

"Well, it worked on Sister Euphemia," replied Fic, "I had to help look after her when I was a Postulant. She was ninety-seven, used her walker the way an extra from a Mad Max film would drive a car, and had a distinct dislike of bathing. Prayer didn't work, so I resorted to bribery." She headed for the laundry, the imp rolling big sad eyes at her like any dog about to be dragged into the soapy clutches of The Evil Bath.

"You can show imps?" Ian asked dubiously.

"Oh, yes," Orgle told him, "It's very prestigious. It's not really my thing, though – I don't think what you look like matters, it's what you can do that's important."

"That's a very enlightened outlook, Orgle," smiled Ian.

"I do compete with him, sometimes," Orgle went on, "Phlegmgob is a champion farter! He likes to sleep in his trophy!" His face fell. "I wonder if I should just pop back home and fetch it so he'll be comfortable."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Ian assured him, sighing inwardly. _You learn something every day_ , he mused. Showing imps? Farting contests? He'd always known that humans could behave in utterly bizarre and irrational ways, but he'd had no idea that demons were also clearly able to descend into complete insanity.

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Dean gave Castiel a look that we shall describe, for the purposes of this dramatic juncture in the narrative, as an Eye Sex Stare Of Complete WTF. Sam treated the angel to a special complimentary modified Bitchface #1a™ (Cas, I Don't _Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!)

"What?" chorused the Winchesters.

"I know," sighed Crowley sadly, "It's obviously affecting his brain. More than it was already defective, I mean."

"So, you're suggestin' that these two idjits cover for you two idjits?" asked Bobby.

"Yes," Castiel said. "It would take a very special type of individual to oversee Heaven…"

"Special Needs, certainly," contributed Crowley.

"…And Hell must also be governed by someone with great force of will," the angel continued. "These realms can only be governed by those who will be accepted by their very fabric. By their heritage, their descent, their very being, Dean and Sam are uniquely suited to take over the roles. Michael and Lucifer may not be available; but their vessels are."

"But… but…" Dean stammered, "But… angels… Heaven… winged dicks… assholes… paperwork… really?"

"Demons," Sam said doubtfully, "Demons, lots of demons, evil demons, Hell, full of demons, homicidal, regicidal, Samicidal demons…"

"The situation is dire," Castiel intoned ominously, the timbre of his sober pronouncement spoiled somewhat by the explosive sneeze that followed it, "Order must be maintained Above and Below."

"So, how would you propose to set this up so that my boys wouldn't get 'emselves killed by assholes of either kind?" asked Bobby.

Dean, Sam and Crowley let out small yips of protest. "You cannot be considering this!" protested Sam.

"I'm afraid I must side with Moose on this one," snuffled Crowley.

"Well then, who else do you suggest as your stunt double, Your Majesty?" growled Bobby.

"Consider the matter carefully, Crowley," Castiel paused to honk into a tissue. "Whom would you trust to fill your role?"

"Nobody!" wailed Crowley.

"The candidate would have to be someone who could keep order, and keep Hell running," the angel went on, "And would be willing to relinquish the role when you are recovered. The only other individual likely to fulfil these criteria is your hard-working fiend Orgle."

Crowley's face went from dismayed to horrified. "No! Last time Orgle stood in for me, he was popular! Everybody liked him! They wanted him to replace me permanently!"

"Orgle aint in the runnin' anyway," Bobby told them grimly. "His little pal has whatever you idjits have, and he's worried sick – he'll be stayin' here until his imp is feeling better. I think that the Sheriff has it right; it's absolutely vital that stability be maintained, in Heaven and Hell, until you two are back on your feet, and it's gotta happen right away. Aint nobody else can do it."

Dean sank down onto the end of Castiel's bed with a groan, and let his face fall into his hands. "I don't want to be Sheriff of Heaven," he moaned.

"And I don't want to be King of Hell," Sam added.

"The one who doesn't want the job will do it better, aint that what you said?" Bobby reminded him.

"Nice going, bitch," muttered Dean.

"This is what you do, Dean," Castiel reminded him. "Ensuring stability in Heaven and Hell, avoiding the potential for an outbreak of chaos, definitely counts as saving people."

"Without the Hunting things bit," Dean observed gloomily, looking up at his brother, whose expression was equally resigned. "Well, at least you can head Down South, and start burnin' demons right out of existence…" he looked momentarily hopeful. "Would I get to do any smiting?"

"Aren't you listenin'?" snapped Bobby. "The idea is to keep order, maintain stability – that means, keep everything runnin' on an even keel."

"Which means, no doing anything that might upset the current balance of power," Sam noted, with a wistful sigh.

"I could give you a list of Hierarchy I'd cheerfully see exterminated," offered Crowley.

"But what if…" Sam looked extremely unhappy, "What if… what if I turn out to be _good_ at it? What if I turned out to be really good at being King of Hell?"

Dean stood, and put a consoling hand on his brother's shoulder. "I think, Sammy, it's what they're counting on." He managed a sheepish smile. "So, if I'm gonna be Deputy Sheriff, do I get a hat?"

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If you ask a dozen different people what Heaven is and what Hell is, you will get a dozen different answers. You'll get everything from 'A place of unending contentment and happiness, basking in the presence of God and His eternal love' and 'A place of unrelenting torment and suffering where the sinful are punished forever for their evil deeds in life', through to 'Jared Padalecki, a drop sheet and a bottle of chocolate sauce, or maybe Jensen Ackles, a four poster and some fluffy handcuffs' and 'A departmental meeting, complete with a briefing from the Finance drones, that starts at four o'clock on a Friday afternoon and runs ninety minutes overtime'. The difficulty being, of course, that humans, being mortal creatures constrained by the physical plane's laws of time and matter, cannot possibly experience, let alone understand, Heaven or Hell as they exist outside of mundane material reality.

No human can possibly perceive a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, or understand the twisting of a human being's very self into a disembodied manifestation of wicked self-interest. Not with a brain that evolved to figure out which fruit was ripe enough to eat and that sabre-tooth animals were not safe to pet. But the thing about the human brain is that it's remarkably adept at taking what's right in front of it, and interpreting the uninterpretable to create a perception that it can deal with, without exploding. This very human attribute, combined with the Winchesters' intrinsic nature, fit them to deal with the inhabitants of the realms they were sent to govern.

How was this accomplished? Well, I could try to explain it, but you probably wouldn't understand it. Not with that brain. Let's just take the approach of an author, a man who wore a natty hat and died of early onset dementia tragically young and at the height of his powers, when he was asked how the ocean that spilled constantly off the edge of his flatland disc of a world was recycled back up onto the land from the emptiness of space into which it constantly drained; he explained it thus:

"Arrangements Are Made."

And so, at Singer Salvage, in order to maintain the running of Heaven and Hell in the absence of the respective overseers, Arrangements Were Made…

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They had some notice in Heaven, as Castiel deemed it sensible to send word ahead to explain his absence, with assurances that he would be back to his duties as soon as possible. This caused a certain amount of relief in Heaven – his brothers and sisters had started to become worried – and also a certain amount of excitement when it was made clear that the Chosen of their Father's Firstborn, the Michaelsword, the Righteous Man, one who was known as a brave and capable warrior in The Cause, would be standing in for him.

And finally, it caused a certain amount of confusion, when the small group of senior angels who had gathered to meet him found him not in the Throne Room (where the Choir had been rehearsing 'Holy Holy Holy' in preparation for his arrival), but in Castiel's office, his booted feet on the desk, wearing something decidedly… unexpected on his head.

"What is that?" asked a senior Herald. "Is it some sort of halo?"

"I am not certain," replied a member of the Choir, "But I believe it is called a 'hat'."

"I have seen these hats," a third angel murmured, "I believe that the particular style was introduced and popularised amongst humans on a northern continent by a man named Stetson…"

The Righteous Man looked up at them, squared his shoulders, and cleared his throat. They fell silent, listening intently, as he made his first pronouncement unto the Heavenly Host:

"So, what does a guy have to do to get a beer around here?"

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Hell received no notice whatsoever of the impending change of arrangements; some of the demonic nobility were already becoming suspicious about Crowley's presence, or lack thereof, and the perpetual scheming that always bubbled just below the surface of what passed for polite society in Hell was simmering, threatening to come to the boil.

Lucifer, of all of God's Heavenly children, probably has the best understanding of the concept of 'showmanship', even more so than Gabriel, which is why he'd had an enormous set of doors manifest as the entrance to the changeable cavernous space that was his Throne Room. They were utterly unnecessary, for theatrical effect only.

When those enormous doors banged open and a tall figure sauntered in, shouldering roughly past Duke Ganthery, the fat old demon let out an angry bark.

"You young fool!" he began, chins quivering with outrage, "I'll teach you to watch where you're…"

The duke's voice trailed off as he found himself on the receiving end of a stare that pouted so impressively he was stunned into silence.

"Don't," snapped the man, the _child_ , who'd just bumped into him, "Just don't, I am _not_ in the mood."

Radiating pique, the newcomer made his way directly to the Red Throne, as some of the more observant demons began to whisper to each other, until a susurrus of astonished whispers spread out through the crowd and permeated through Hell's consciousness.

 _The Boy King. The Boy King has come to claim the Red Throne._

The demons all fell silent, scenting the ambiance the way a deer, spotting a wolf, will stop whatever it's doing, whatever it's thinking, and reprioritise survival above everything else.

The young man slumped on the throne, his face in a pouting expression of dissatisfaction that set some of the younger demon ladies – and also some of the men – to wondering if this change in the power play might offer some intriguing, and possibly very entertaining, possibilities for attempting to curry favour with the new Lord of Hell. One of the more bold, or possibly just more calculating, stepped forward.

"Er, Your Majesty?" she ventured, trying a smile.

"Yeah," the boyish face drooped, which just made it look more attractive, she thought. "Yeah, that's me."

She risked letting her smile widen. "Well, now that you are here, Majesty, may I… serve you?"

The pout became absolutely epic. "Not like that," growled Sam, "But you might start by telling me where I can get a beer in this place."

* * *

I'm not sure who's going to be more traumatised by this, the Winchesters or the occupants of Heaven and Hell - feed Florence reviews, and maybe we'll find out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The angels stared at Dean as if they were fish and he'd asked them for a bicycle. "Beer?" repeated one of them.

"Beer," confirmed Dean, standing up and looking around at the untidy space that Castiel used as his seat of stewardship, "You know, the drink. Barley and water go in, and awesome comes out. It's in the Bible," he added sternly.

" 'Wine is a mocker, and beer is a brawler'," quoted another of the angels, " 'And whomsoever staggers because of them is not wise'."

"Yep, that's the exact stuff," Dean confirmed happily. "I want me some of that."

" 'Kings should not drink wine, and rulers should not desire beer'," quoted the third.

"Well, I aint a king, that's for sure, and I'm not a ruler, either," Dean told them firmly, "I'm Deputy Sheriff, while the Sheriff is temporarily out of action. So," he gestured meaningfully. "Beer. I want it. What was your name?"

"I am Zariniel, Michaelsword, an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," replied the first angel.

"And a very attractive angel you are, too," Dean grinned at her.

"I am Maveriel, an Angel of the Lord, a Servant of Heaven," replied the second. "I am a healer, Michaelsword."

"And I am Ameniel, an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven," replied the third.

"Yeah, the harp kind of gives it away," noted Dean. "So, beer." He gestured meaningfully. "Who's in charge of beer?"

The angels looked perplexed. "Er, none of us, Michaelsword," Zariniel replied eventually.

Dean gave them a look of disbelief. "Oh, come on, somebody Up Here must be in charge of beer!" he insisted. "If God didn't want people to drink beer, why did He give them livers?"

"Oh, the liver is a vitally important organ," began Maveriel, "It is in fact a gland, with a major role in regulation of metabolism and hormone excretion, and also in maintenance of correct levels of blood elements, being active in synthesis of plasma proteins and also the destruction of aged erythrocytes, as well as its role in the detoxification of many ingested substances and their metabolites, ethanol being just one of a broad range of…"

"Uh, yeah, that's great, Mav, yay livers," Dean interrupted. "But what I'm getting at is, there must be some way of getting beer. It's Heaven, after all. Lots of people must want beer in Heaven, so there must be beer here. Isn't there?"

"Oh, yes," confirmed Ameniel as Maveriel looked confused at the truncation of his name, "It is definitely present, and enjoyed by countless souls."

"Good," grunted Dean, "Because if there's no beer in Heaven, I don't wanna come here when my time is up. So, draw straws or something, then go find the nearest person who has beer in their version, and get some."

The angels looked horrified. "Are you suggesting that we… intrude upon a soul's eternal reward?" whispered Maveriel.

"Well, not intrude, as _such_ ," shrugged Dean, "You could, maybe, knock first."

"We can't do that!" yelped Ameniel, "It's, it's, it's…"

"It is… not done, Michaelsword," Maveriel cut in smoothly, "We are not to… interfere with the souls in Heaven's keeping."

"What about Cas and his eternal Tuesday afternoon?" demanded Dean a little petulantly.

"Cas?" echoed Ameniel.

"I believe he refers to our brother Castiel," Zariniel supplied, "He does not interfere, he does not intrude upon the soul, he just… stands there."

Dean waved a hand meaningfully. "Well, go find a Heaven with booze, and just stand there. And get me beer."

"It is not my intention to gainsay you, Michaelsword," Zariniel said, "But we are forbidden to interfere. Castiel may stand unnoticed by the soul in the garden, but meeting a soul and asking for beer would require interaction. Intrusion. We would be noticed."

"Well, go do it unnoticed!" Dean started to sound exasperated. "Sneak in after hours, or something."

Ameniel's mouth dropped open in horror. "Are you… I apologise, I believe I must be misinterpreting your will."

"Indeed," agreed Maveriel loftily, "For the Michaelsword could not possibly be suggesting that we… we… steal."

"Well, it wouldn't exactly be _stealing_ ," Dean wheedled, "After all, 'stealing' implies an intention to deprive somebody of their property permanently, right?"

The angels nodded warily.

"And in Heaven, if a soul likes beer, the beer will never run out, right?"

"He is speaking like lawyer, like a child of Lucifer," muttered Ameniel, "Has Castiel sent us the appropriate brother?"

"Sooooo," Dean drew the syllable out meaningfully, "If you were, by chance, to acquire beer from a Heaven, there would be more, the soul would never notice, so it wouldn't be theft!" He beamed at them brightly.

Zariniel squared her shoulders and lifted her chin; she had seen battle against The Eternal Enemy, and did not lack in courage. "I shall undertake this mission, Michaelsword," she stated as her brothers gasped at her bravery. "I shall find a place in Father's realm, and I shall procure for you, beer. By stealth and guile I shall do this."

"Attagirl, Zari," Dean gave her a low-wattage version of the Killer Smile, "Hooah! God, I love a woman in uniform," he muttered as she took wing. "So, that's the really important stuff sorted." He looked around the 'office'. "Hey, do you guys have flamethrowers here? Even a flaming sword would probably do it…"

"It would be… appropriate for you to show yourself to the Host, and reassure them," suggested Ameniel, "For there has been consternation at the news of our brother Castiel's apparent illness."

"Address the troops, huh?" mused Dean. "Okay, I can understand them bein' worried, but he'll be fine, we'll figure out what's goin' on, and he'll be back again, not understanding references before you know it."

Maveriel cocked his head in a most Castiel-like gesture. "I don't understand the reference to references," he stated.

"The more things change," sighed Dean to himself, "So, Am, you're the comms man, you can put out the call on Angel Radio, and I'll explain what's going on."

"I shall do that, Michaelsword," Ameriel made a slight bow, "Just as soon as you are dressed."

"Good, so… " Dean's brain caught up with the conversation. "Dressed?"

"Well, of course," Ameniel went on, "You are the Michaelsword, Chosen of Father's Firstborn, and you must don your uniform in order to appear before the Host. Come," he smiled, taking Dean's elbow, "I shall accompany you to the armourer."

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Crowley hadn't been kidding when he told Bobby and the Winchesters that what Hell really craved, what Hell thrived on, was continuity – that is, stability of, well, everything, really, so that demons, from the Hierarchy of Hell's nobility to the most lowly who were newly twisted, fresh of the racks, to keep on doing what they liked to do, which usually meant scheming, conniving, plotting, back-stabbing and undermining each other, when not amusing themselves indulging in the Seven Deadly Sins.

The Hierarchy in particular, being not only the most powerful but the oldest of demons, liked things to continue as they were – they had, after all, once been human, and as they get older, demons become even more set in their than the most cantankerous elderly relative who starts every single sentence with 'In my day…' or 'When I was your age…'. They found change generally abhorrent; oh, novelty could divert them, even catch their attention, you only had to look at the way that showing pedigree imps and carrying tactical handbags had caught on, to say nothing of Duke Anghaal's constant attempts to secure conditions in which to try zero gravity sex, but that was just tinkering around the edges. Change could mean alteration of their stations in afterlife, and nobody at the top of the heap wants to think of anybody looking at a piece of the pyramid further down and wondering if pulling it out might be a good way to rearrange all the blocks into a different kind of structure completely. Tradition was important. After all, who wouldn't be a great lover of tradition if that tradition meant that you might be damned to The Pit but, like the First Class passengers on _Titanic_ , you got a better class of doom?

Which is why so many of them found themselves unexpectedly pleased with the arrival of The Boy King, Lord Samuel, Ruler of Hell, to take up the Red Throne. At the very least, he was certainly an aesthetic improvement on Crowley, who only infuriated the Hierarchy with his complete inferiority to Lucifer, who had once been the most beautiful and most loved in all Creation.

The Boy King stared at the female demon, who held her ground. "Beer, sire?"

"Yes, beer," he repeated, the puckered disapproval on his face battering at her. "Somewhere in this Godforsaken place, there must be somebody who knows what beer is! It's dissed in the Bible, for fuck's sake, that means you must know about it in Hell." He glared at a rotund demon. "You look like a guy who knows all about too much wine, women and song, where's the beer?"

Duke Ganthery, universally acknowledged as the fattest demon in Hell (Crowley always kept a tub of lard and a crowbar in his office in case the old letch got stuck in the door), rose clumsily to his feet. "Indeed, sire," he smiled his most smarmily, "I am acquainted with beer, and would be please to acquire you some."

"Good," grunted Lord Samuel, "Go fetch." He peered around the demon's circumference at his kneeling subjects. "Oh, get up, all of you, I'll let you know if I want to see grovelling." He paused, and wiggled on the Red Throne in a most unmajestic fashion. "And you," he pointed at Ghazoria, "Go see if we have a Damned upholsterer Down Here, will you?"

There was another outbreak of shocked whispering as the Boy King gave orders to two of the Hierarchy's most powerful demons as if they were mere servants; Ghazoria allowed herself a small hiss of outrage, but gritted her teeth and bowed. "At once, sire."

"Good." Their ruler slumped on the Throne once more, then turned to eye the milling demons with that terrifying pout. "What? Do I have a frog on my head or something? Go on, go about your business, whatever it is." He waved a hand, and the demons fell back, pulling into small groups to mutter about how best to seek advantage in this new arrangement.

"Why did you promise him beer? There's no beer Down Here!"

"Well, we'll get him some! If we don't, some other faction will – and will have it brought to him by their most alluring scion."

"But we'll have to go Topside for beer!"

"Well, don't just stand there, send somebody!"

"You send somebody if you're so keen – have you seen the paperwork required? AND you have to sit through those miserable OH&S briefings."

"And there's a quiz after, to make sure you paid attention. You have to get 50% right before you can go."

"I'm betting _he_ doesn't know that, so just, just, look, there's one of Belaal's lackeys headed off now! Get some snivelling toady to get Up There, and get beer! Where's my daughter?"

"I believe she's at the groomer, with her imps, my lord."

"Well, get her back here, tell her to possess the most presentable host she can find, not that one in overalls and boots that looks like she spends all day in the kennels with those furry pests."

"Uh, my lord, she does spend all day in the kennels with her imps."

"And tell her to wash! She'll hardly be in a position to seduce the Lord of Hell if she smells like she's been rolling in the litter trays."

Sam stared disconsolately around him; the demons had returned to their muttering huddles, leaving him sitting on the uncomfortable throne – it had gone relatively smoothly, if you didn't count the absolute death glare the vicious old cow in enough red velvet to carpet a palace audience room, he really didn't want to have to call upon his Special Children abilities, but he would if he had to…

His chain of thought was broken when his nose twitched; could he smell something burning? Makes sense, he thought, I'm sitting in the middle of Hell, after all…

"Your Majesty?"

The deep voice at his side was what a cup of hot chocolate made with organic 80%+ cocoa solids would sound like if it could talk. He turned towards it.

Beside the Red Throne stood a ten-foot figure, a gigantic man, whose limbs burned with fire as he appeared to shimmer in a haze of pale heat _. If you took a bodybuilder, painted him red, put him in harem pants, then the acetone-based tanning product he'd used caught fire, that's just what it would look like_ , mused Sam. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"I am Nabiz, Majesty," the figure's face broke into a cheerful smile and he performed a salaam. "I am a DICKHED."

Sam gawped up at him. "Oh. Uh, really?"

"Yes, lord," the figure smiled even more widely, "I am a visiting fellow of the Diabolical Inter-Cultural Knowledge & Heritage Exchange Directive, here on secondment from Jahannam."

Understanding dawned. "You're an ifrit?" Sam ventured.

"Indeed, _effendi_ ," Nabiz inclined his head, "I have been staying with the ever-helpful and so-friendly Orgle, a fiend of your realm, though perhaps you do not take an interest in such lowly creatures as we are…"

"Oh, no, I know Orgle," Sam interrupted, "He's, uh, he's a dude. He's very efficient. Very important to running things here. It's, uh, it's good to meet you, Nabiz, and I, er, I hope you find your time with, uh, us, to be, informative and developmentally constructive."

"Thank you, lord," Nabiz gave him a little bow, "Orgle has been in contact with me, and has indicated that he will be absent for some time, as his little friend is unwell." The handsome face became grave. "Such a shame, the dear little thing, did you know that Phlegmgob is a champion farter?"

"Uh, no," Sam stammered, "No, I didn't. But I'd totally believe it. Yeah, I've seen – well, I've heard – and yeah, I've smelt – the little guy in action…"

"And so while the redoubtable Orgle is otherwise occupied, this least one shall be your assistant!" the ifrit beamed again.

"Oh, well, er, great!" Sam tried to sound more enthused than he felt as Nabiz proffered a key.

"This is the key to the Office," he intoned in a hushed tone, holding it as if it was a precious relic, "Orgle has entrusted it to me, and now I present it to you."

Sam let out a small sigh of relief; an office sounded more like something he could deal with. "Great," he repeated, taking the key, "So, uh, Nabiz, I'm sure you're not at all least, why don't you lead the way?"

* * *

Oh dear, Dean's not really the type to enjoy wearing a uniform, although I'm sure he'd look fetching in a Roman legionary style tunic and armour... perhaps Sam can get some stationery from Verael to bring the head office of Hell up to spec? When will the beer arrive? Send Florence the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Refreshing Drink* When You Are Beset By Bemusing Individuals Who Vex You!

*It could be beer, it could be tea, it could be a banana smoothie, I'll leave it up to you.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Dean had, on numerous occasions, had to wear outfits that he would not normally wear by choice day to day in the course of Hunting. He had worn a business suit. He had worn a wetsuit. He had worn a catsuit, a gorilla suit, and even his birthday suit. It was just part of the job.

He had worn garments that were not traditionally thought of as male attire: he had worn a sequined bodice and tutu (portraying Odile on a job to put down the angry spirit of a trans ballerina), he had worn a ball gown (in order to deal with the restless ghost of a champion ballroom dancer) and he had worn a strappy slinky little number to attend a function for pre-surgery transwomen along with their surgeons (no matter how many times they did rock-paper-scissors, Sam always got to be the surgeon).

He had worn a kilt (in Campbell tartan, of course) and had thoroughly discombobulated Sam by embracing his heritage and going regimental, which proved not only to be authentic but to be highly convenient when he encountered a frisky lady who was equally interested in beautiful natural acts between consenting adults – he would never admit it, but he'd kind of liked it.

However, when presented with the first element of his uniform…

"Is something wrong, Michaelsword?" asked the angel, named Sephariel, who proffered it earnestly.

"Uh, no, no," Dean replied, eyeing the garment, "I just, uh, I wasn't expecting to have to wear a dress."

"Oh, this is a tunic," smiled Sephariel, "Do you require assistance?"

"Oh, no, it's, uh, it's okay, I got this," Dean offered the angel a small smile, "I've seen Cas in his armour, I know how it's supposed to work. I've always thought he looked a bit like a Roman legionary, or something. Only a lot cleaner."

"It is how humans envisage us," sighed Sephariel with good-natured bemusement. "You know how it is, 'Verily I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven'. That was the Son's doing – I can't say I'm completely surprised, He has a very… human sense of humour."

"It could be worse," intoned Ameniel seriously, "The Ophanim used to have to manifest as multi-rimmed wheels covered in eyes – they took it with good grace, of course, but privately they used to complain about it making them terribly dizzy."

"Humanity is a bit less literal now, thank Father," agreed Sephariel, "I mean, really, six wings? Four faces? What were they thinking?"

"There would be a lot of work for the healers, when one of our brothers was required to manifest unto a traditional sect," noted Ameniel, "The Cherubs used to get a whiplash type injury in four necks at once, trying to watch where they were going. They are certainly more contented with their current idiom of manifestation."

"Can't say that I am," muttered Dean.

"Of course, it's all Gabriel's fault," sighed Sephariel, "When Father sent him on his first missions to appear unto His mortal children, he was suddenly seized by a fit of shyness."

"What?" Dean yapped. "Gabriel? Shy? Is this Gabriel the Archangel, aka Loki the Trickster, we're talking about? _That_ Gabriel got stage fright?"

"The very same," nodded Ameniel. "He was younger at the time, though, so it wasn't completely unexpected. So he talked his three big brothers into going with him, just be with me, he wheedled, just be there, have my back, you don't have to manifest, I can do this if I know my brothers are behind me, he said…"

Understanding dawned. "And so, he looked like he had extra heads and wings," Dean finished.

"Exactly," said Ameniel. "Although he is one of the few of the Host who actually likes to manifest with six wings, especially before aeronautical engineers, he says it messes with their heads in a most amusing way…"

"So if you will dress, Michaelsword," smiled Sephariel, "I shall assist you with your armour."

The angel then handed over something that looked like a cross between an apron and a tablecloth for a table that had been made in wood shop by somebody with no clue about how to use a measuring tape, a right angle, or in fact reality.

"Oh, uh," Dean examined the piece of linen. "What is this? Hey, is this my Superangel cape?"

"No, Michaelsword," chuckled Sephariel, "Your cloak is a much larger piece. This is your subligaculum."

"My… what the hell is this thing?" Dean frowned as he considered the unfamiliar Latin word. _Ligaculum_ , referring to a kilt, and _sub_ meaning underneath…"

"Like this, Michaelsword," said Sephariel helpfully, lifting his own tunic to demonstrate.

Dean let out a squawk of horror "Oh, I didn't not need to see that!" he complained, clapping his hands to his eyes, "There was nothin' in the agreement about lookin' at an angel's shorts!"

"This is not actually in the form of what you would recognise as 'shorts'," Ameniel said.

"You're tellin' me!" Dean shot back. "The word 'diaper' springs to mind, but not shorts."

"The Romans did sometimes wear an undergarment that might look more recognisable to you," Sephariel looked thoughtful, "Closer to shorts."

"Anything," griped Dean, thrusting the garment back at the angel as if he feared it would bite him. "Anything has to be better than an adult diaper."

He genuinely believed that.

Until Sephariel showed him a pair of Roman shorts.

Made from leather.

"Will these serve, Michaelsword?" the angel asked solicitously, "Strangely enough, Gabriel often chooses to wear something like these…"

Dean made a small noise that sounded like 'Meeeeeeep'.

"We shall leave you to dress, Michaelsword," said Ameniel, turning to his brother to elaborate. "Castiel has explained that this is an activity which humans prefer to undertake alone."

"Really?" Sephariel sounded amazed. "Why is that?"

"It is to do with various cultural norms and body taboos, inculated in an individual from early childhood, with the intention of refraining from causing disconcert or offence amongst other members of the immediate community," Ameniel recited, with the air of a student who was pleased to have mastered a difficult abstract concept, "Undressing in the presence of others, those who are not part of a person's intimate circle, is strictly avoided except for some very specific circumstances, which do not apply here."

"Other humans would find the sight of his naked body… offensive?" Sephariel was clearly trying very hard to understand, and failing miserably, examining Dean with an expression that was discombobulatingly similar to Castiel's Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "I may not be well versed in humanity's traditions, but to my untrained eye, I would say that his body would be deemed to be most aesthetically pleasing to his society…"

"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean.

"And given what I know, I believe that many women who identify as heterosexual and men who identify as homosexual or individuals who are bisexual would find his body to be erotically pleasing also…"

"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean.

"Although I am somewhat confused as to why his legs have been epilated, and as for the complete removal of all body hear from his…"

" _Meeeeeeep_!" went Dean.

"Nonetheless, we shall leave," Ameniel repeated, "We shall return when you are attired, Michaelsword." With a familiar flap-flap noise, the two angels disappeared.

Dean sighed, and looked at the tunic – it's not a dress, he told himself, not believing a word of it, it's not a dress – and the awful unmentionable. Maybe if he was lucky, somebody Up There would figure out a way for him to get around as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent for a while, in which case he wouldn't need… that.

He might even be able to smite it.

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Sam recognised Crowley's office the moment he set foot in it.

He already knew about the Bidet Of Power, of course, the delicate rosewood and porcelain antique that Crowley like to sit on to receive the most senior members of the Hierarchy, because it really messed with their heads, but the rest of the opulent space would've been right at home at the HQ of a stockbroking firm that was about to go under and declare bankruptcy once the members of the board had shifted the last of their assets to the Cayman Islands and bought the First Class plane tickets to Majorca. _I am the office of a very important person,_ the space, the décor, the very fabric of the place screamed, _A very important person, much more important than you, with much more money, much more power, and much more success than you, so just cower before me, in fact you should be grovelling, just don't leave grovelling marks on that incredibly expensive carpet woven from the pelts of critically endangered seals and washed in the tears of crippled war orphans, and mind the desk, that desk was made from hardwood timber stolen from a rainforest that by rights belongs to some of the poorest people on Earth, a lot of orang-utans had to die to get the timber for that desk, incidentally get a look at the mosaic floor in the restroom on the way out, it was done by impoverished illiterate children who work sixteen hour shifts and are paid in dung, no, on second thoughts, stay the hell out of my obscenely opulent restroom, just ask the janitor to sweep you away with all the other cockroaches…_

It was a space intended and designed to strike dread into the heart of anybody crossing the threshold, to batter them with a sense of their own helpless worthlessness in the face of somebody who held absolute power over life and death, and other things that were much much worse…

With a disdainful expression, Sam strode across the carpet to the desk, and surveyed the surface, which was strewn with paperwork. "How the hell does he get anything done here?" he demanded of nobody in particular."

"Mr Crowley usually leaves the trifling formalities of administration to those whose station more befits the matter," answered Nabiz smoothly. "He refers to it as delegation."

"Well, 'dereliction' might be a better word," humphed Sam, opening drawers and peering in. "Damn it, there's no stationery here at all! Where do I get stationery?"

A shadow crossed Nabiz's handsome features. "Ah," he began, "That would require a requisition to the Library, to be authorised by the Senior Librarian."

"Well, I'll get right on that," Sam decided, shuffling fruitlessly at the threatening avalanche of documentation as he looked for a keyboard to go with the monitor. "Meanwhile, let's get this thing fired up…"

Brushing aside another pile of paper, he located the box under the desk, and switched it on. He was rewarded with a short gif of a Hellhound chasing a damned soul around the screen, then a message appeared:

 **WEIRDOS IS LOADING**

"Okay, we got ignition," muttered Sam, "So, let's have a look at the network here…"

The screen changed again to display a new message:

 **PLEASE WAIT WHILE WEIRDOS UPDATES**

"Great," groaned Sam, "He hasn't switched in on for a few days, and now it's gonna take ten full minutes to…"

 **LOADING UPDATE 1 OF 23,456,787,645,447,841,884,965,387,641,752,903.6**

The newly arrived Lord of Hell stared at the screen, letting out a noise of outrage.

"Mr Crowley does not like the computer system very much, lord," Nabiz explained, "And since it is so rarely active, when updates update, I am afraid the update… with extreme prejudice."

Sam spluttered in annoyance. "Point six?" he managed eventually, "Point six? How the fuck do you have point six of an update? Oh, crap, only in Hell…"

"Perhaps while you wait, you would like to change, _effendi_ ," suggested the ifrit with the smoothness of Jeeves steering Bertie Wooster away from yet another disastrous run-in with Aunt Agatha.

Sam gawped at him, still reeling from the moral outrage of a computer that took too long to update. "Change?" he echoed.

"Indeed, lord," Nabiz putting a hand to a door in the expensive wall panelling. "It is not for this lowly one to tell you how to rule your kingdom, but I have, in my inadequate observations, noted that for a ruler, the cultivation of a certain… ambiance is conducive to the projection and maintenance of one's powerand dominance, and the proclamation of one's fitness to hold the office. Mr Crowley calls it 'power dressing'." He smiled widely. "Would you defer to a leader who did not present a suitably… intimidating impression?"

Trying to suppress a pained sigh (but not completely succeeding), Sam looked down at himself: he was wearing the comfortable if somewhat faded patterned button down that Dean disparagingly referred to as 'The Maternity Shirt' – his big brother had in fact tried to dispose of it several times until Sam held Dean's favourite Motorhead tee to ransom in order to make him stop – and a pair of jeans with a tear in one knee. His job was to maintain stability, uphold the status quo, he told himself sternly. "Yeah, you could be right, Nabiz," he agreed reluctantly. "What did you have in mind?"

Nabiz opened the door. "Well, there are many possibilities for a recognisable depiction of the Lord of Hell," he said, gesturing into what turned out to be an expansive walk-in robe, "So it is really up to yourself as to which one you choose to assume."

"Right," Sam mused glumly, "So, I guess 'Recognisably The Devil' is something the Hierarchy will like."

He rejected out of hand a red bodysuit, complete with tail and horns and accessorised with a very fetching pitchfork. There were in fact several variations on that theme.

"What the… you gotta be kidding!"

"You have to admit, lord, it is very convincing, and very intimidating."

"How the hell am I supposed to even hold my head up with horns like that?"

"The outfit shall conform to you, _effendi_ , you are ruler here, and it is the nature of Hell."

"No. Just no. Leather pants? Red body paint? No."

"You have the height and build, and dare I say it, the chin, to carry this off magnificently, if I may say so, lord…"

"Nabiz, I am NOT setting foot outside this office dressed as Darkness from the film 'Legend'!"

"Very well, sire."

Right. Good. So, what's this?"

"Ah, very traditional, Great One, it will appeal enormously to the traditionalists of the Hierarchy, that is to say, all of them."

"What is this, some kind fur?"

"The hide of a goat, _effendi_."

"Goat? Goat? A pair of, of, of, footie pyjamas, made out of goat skin, and… huh?"

"Feet of a goat, sire, cloven hooves. Very practical for kicking posterior."

"I am not dressing as a goat!"

"Only half a goat, lord, bottom half. Top half is all you."

"No."

"These horns go with this ensemble."

"No."

"They are not very large horns, majesty."

"No!"

"They are hardly even horns at all, you would barely notice this unintrusive little set of hornlets…"

"NO!" Sam shot what was a recognisable Bitchface™ at the ifrit, who winced. "Nothing that isn't completely humanoid. Humanish. Looks like a human, okay? Nothing fancy, just, just, something I can wear."

Nabiz let out a long breath that respectfully refrained from being an exasperated huff. "The Lord of Hell has been represented many ways to many societies during human history," he reminded Sam, moving to the other end of the wardrobe, "Perhaps a depiction from your own era." He held out a hanger.

Sam let out a high-pitched shriek. "What the fuck?"

"Very recognisable," Nabiz waggled the hanger, "Twenty-first century interpretation, from a widely distributed movie…"

"I am not wearing a red bikini!" Sam howled in horror, "I am not Liz Hurley! Male, Nabiz, something suitably male!"

"As you wish," Nabiz shrugged, and held out an empty hanger with a small tag on it. "This, perhaps?"

"What is that?" Sam glared suspiciously, "There's nothing on it!"

"No garments, no," Nabiz agreed, reading the tag, "But a suggestion that you go out and possess a man by the name of De Niro…"

"No!" Sam snapped, "I am not possessing Robert de Niro!"

The ifrit consulted a tag on another empty hanger. "Jack Nicholson?"

"No!"

"Aha, this one, Harvey Keitel, comes with a pineapple to shove up Hitler's…"

"NO! I am NOT going out and possessing somebody just to keep the Hierarchy happy!" Sam sat down heavily on a thickly upholstered bench seat. "I don't even know if I could – I certainly don't want to. Crap, there has to be something…"

He lifted his eyes, and when he saw what they'd landed on, he groaned. "Oh, the entire universe hates me."

Sensing the possibility of possibility, Nabiz carefully took down the hanger. "This one, yes?"

"That one, yes," Sam sighed, taking it from the now-beaming ifrit, "As the least worst option, that will do."

"Excellent!" If Nabiz smiled any wider, his head was going to fall in half. "I shall remain outside until you are ready."

"Yeah, great. Look, thanks, Nabiz, none of this is your fault," Sam told him.

As the ifrit withdrew, he turned back to the outfit he'd decided he could tolerate. It had matching shoes. And socks. It was completely disturbing.

What was even more disturbing was that when he tried it on it fit him perfectly.

Muttering about the complete impractibility of an entirely white suit, Sam headed back into the office to see what progress the computer updates had made.

* * *

Ah yes, the white suit. Because we couldn't have Sam running about in a red sequinned bikini; Dean in a loincloth is bad enough (he's got his eyes shut as he puts it on). What is Florence the sartorially challenged plot bunny up to? Feed her reviews and make her dictate more chapters!


	11. Chapter 11

You may be assured that, since this is the Jimiverse, where only happy funny things happen, neither Dean nor Sam will be traumatised by time spent in unearthly realms: there will be no horrific flashbacks or PTSD. Sam is not stroppy because he's having bad memories, he's just pissy because he has to fill in for Lucifer, be in the company of demons, and wait for a ludicrously out of date operating system to get its shit together before he can do anything. Oh, and he feels like a bit of a twit in an all-white outfit (it's _Supernatural_ endverse rather than _Constantine_ , because a) he would just shudder at the idea of having to walk around with his feet dripping ectoplasmy stuff and b) he would shudder even more at having to walk around barefoot in Hell, given that even the best bred imp will sometimes forget its housetraining). But it's better than the leather pants. Just.

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

Dean stood as still as he could while Sephariel fitted his armour. "Yow!" he yipped as something pinched.

"My apologies, Michaelsword," said Sephariel immediately, "But it has been a long time since I have assisted with this armour." The angel actually smiled. "I have kept it in trim, of course, polished and oiled, but it has been so long, it is a joy to see it deployed again."

"You look very well in it," commended Ameniel, "Truly a leader to ensure stability in Heaven at this unsettled time."

"Oh, uh, good, that's good," replied Dean, trying to hitch surreptitiously at his unfamiliar undergarment.

"It is only to be expected that the fit will be perfect – it was, after all, made for you," noted Ameniel. "The Host will be much reassured when you expose yourself before them."

"They may get more exposure than they bargained for," muttered Dean with another hitch, "Er," he stared down at his cuirass as it was buckled into place, "Hey, has anybody ever wondered why you'd bother to put, like, nipples on armour?"

"You would have to ask the Romans," shrugged Ameniel.

"Which, of course, we may not do," added Sephariel judiciously, "As that would be intrusion."

"Although if you were determined to find out, you could send a diplomatic communiqué to Elysium," mused Ameniel, "The Romans were pagan for a large proportion of their history after all, and there would doubtless be plenty of armourers there."

"Isn't there, like, a, uh, Circle of Virtuous Pagans Up Here?" asked Dean.

Ameniel didn't quite roll his eyes, but he was clearly struggling not to. "Oh, if it was permitted I would give that Dante fellow such a talking to," he almost-complained, "If it was up to him, we'd all be going around in circles for eternity! Don't unquestioningly believe everything you read written by humans, is my advice."

"Yeah? What about the Bible?" queried Dean.

"As I said," sighed Ameniel.

"Of course, Father would be happy to accommodate any virtuous non-believers," confided Sephariel, "But frankly, whenever Roman gods have visited, they haven't liked the music very much." His tone became just a little bit snippy. "Apparently, they think that Dis Pater throws better parties."

"Oh, er, well," Dean shrugged, "I guess that it will just remain, uh, one of afterlife's little mysteries, then."

Sephariel continued to fuss with buckles and straps and things that Dean never even knew existed – "A war skirt? It's actually called a war skirt? Wow, who knew?" "Well, the Romans did, Michaelsword, it was so named because that is essentially exactly what it is, a fringe of leather panelling to be worn in front of the tunic during combat…" "Uh, yeah, thanks for that, Seph." – until finally his red cloak was fitted into place, and the angel stepped back.

"So, are we done?" asked Dean, wiggling and wondering whether there might be a place for something slightly more modern under his tunic, even if it was only a piece of elastic.

"Almost," Sephariel turned and handed over a belt and scabbard, his face a picture of reverence. "Your blade, Michaelsword."

Taking the sheath, Dean looked at the hilt. It looked battered and worn, well used but well maintained. He'd been raised in the tradition of never drawing a weapon unless you intended to use it, but when he laid his hand to it, he found that he just couldn't resist.

With a metallic _shhhhhing_ noise, the flaming sword sprang from its scabbard. Beaming, Dean gave it a couple of experimental swooshes, whilst the angels looked worried.

"Er, perhaps it would be… prudent to put away your weapon," suggested Sephariel with a wince.

"It's okay," Dean grinned, "I got it. It was made for me, after all."

"Well, yes," Ameniel agreed, "But there have been… mishaps before now."

Dean paused. "Mishaps?"

"It was before I was, when Michael was young," Sephariel told him, "But he was, by all accounts very keen to grow into his role as Father's general, and he started practising with his sword very early on."

"Father told him to wait until he was older," Ameniel carried on, "But Michael was adamant, so he was wielding the weapon while it was too large for him, when suddenly… swoosh!"

"Swoosh?" echoed Dean.

"Swoosh," confirmed Ameniel grimly. "And New Zealand was suddenly two islands."

"Yeah?" mused Dean.

"Then he started to whirl it around," Sephariel resumed the story, "And once he got started, he couldn't stop, and swoosh again!"

"Again, huh?" Dean nodded.

"Many swooshes, actually," Sephariel said, "And suddenly, Japan was no longer a single land mass."

"Wow." Dean regarded the sword, then resheathed it. "I'll, uh, I'll just keep the, er, swooshing to an absolute minimum, then."

"That would be sensible," agreed the angel armourer, "But you are ready to address the Host, Michaelsword,"

"Okay, then," Dean squared his shoulders, and bounced on his toes a few times, noting that the legionary military boots would actually be pretty good for some serious ass-kicking, "So, where does the, uh, Host collect for departmental meetings?"

"You shall be expected in the Throne Room," Ameniel told him, "Where our Father reigns in glory."

"When He's even here," Dean muttered mutinously. "Okay, Am, lead the way."

Looking every inch a leader, an inspiration, and a worthy general to The Almighty's Host, The Righteous Man strode down the echoing marble corridor after Ameniel.

The effect was somewhat spoiled when he had to stop a couple of times to hitch.

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"I can't believe that you lot are still limping along on CRT monitors," griped Sam, frowning at another piece of paper as he tried to bring order to the departmental detritus littering the desk. "And you're several iterations behind with your operating system."

"Well, this _is_ Hell, _effendi_ ," Nabiz pointed out philosophically, "If you're here, afterlife isn't meant to be easy."

"I guess not." Sam studied the piece of paper in his hand. It purported to be a memo from Engineering. "Engineering? You have an Engineering Department?"

"Indeed, lord," Nabiz replied, "Somebody has to keep the furnaces running – the Red Energy reactors, running on souls, are a great technological advance on the old brimstone burning ones, and they take more technical ability to operate." His face became wistful. "I have written a report home on the wonderful efficiency gains to be made in upgrading to this new technology, but I'm afraid that Islam is a number of centuries behind Christianity in many things, including willingness for the realm of the wicked to embrace new and more efficient ways to do business with a renewable and environmentally sound resource to take ownership of our mission for client-focused outcomes."

"Well, you sound like you're on the way with the management-speak," Sam muttered, peering at the document. "Whoever wrote this has terrible handwriting."

"It is probably from Snotty, the Chief of Engineering," Nabiz volunteered. "Mr Crowley does not believe that he writes his memos and reports, he is convinced that the demon drops imps into the blood of lesser demons and lets them scamper about on the page."

Sam considered that, then sniffed the paper. "Nope, definitely not demon blood," he confirmed, "Trust me, I'd know. But if the underlining and emphasis here is anything to go by, he thinks it's important. Either that, or he's got caps lock engaged on his brain." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe I should go talk to this Snotty."

"Well, you can try," shrugged Nabiz, "He'll be in the furnace room, that's where he always is. But I warn you, lord, he can be…"

The ifrit was interrupted by a knock at the door of the office.

"Shall I get that, sire?" he asked, "Or would you like to kick them in the posterior back out into the hall?"

Sam looked at the monitor. "I didn't get an alert," he noted, "And this Departmental Instruction," he waved another piece of paper, "Makes it clear that if anybody wants to speak to the King of Hell, they have to book an appointment in the calendar…" he scrabbled on the desk amidst the mess.

"Are you looking for something, lord?" enquired Nabiz.

"Yeah, the mouse," Sam replied.

"Just follow the cord, _effendi_ ," Nabiz reached behind a desktop ornament pen holder that depicted a sinner being torn limb from limb by demons – Sam had already tested it, when the pen was removed or replaced it played a jaunty little tune accompanied by agonised screams. "It is necessary for the mouse to be tethered to the computer."

"Of course," sighed Sam, "It would be too much to hope for that it might be cordless."

"Indeed," the ifrit agreed, "But it is also necessary to stop them running away."

He held up the hapless rodent, which gazed at Sam in a bored fashion. Red streaks crackled across its eyes.

"Oh, are you kidding?" Sam almost wailed, "Hellmice? Why the fuck would there be Hellmice?"

"Well, there has to be a way to get the cursor to move on the screen," Nabiz pointed out reasonably, "And R&D isn't having a lot of luck with the stab screens yet."

Sam just knew he'd regret asking. "Stab screens?"

"I do not understand the details," Nabiz admitted, "But it is a way to get items to move on the screen without using a mouse – instead, you just take a dagger and stab the screen where you want the cursor to go, and…"

The knocking at the door sounded again.

"Go answer that," Sam sighed, putting down the mouse and the memo.

"Shall I put down the drop sheet?" asked the ifrit briskly.

"Drop sheet?" Sam was nonplussed. "Why, do demons routinely, uh, leak when they come in here?"

"Well, sometimes," replied Nabiz, "If they get frightened enough. Or if you decide to shred them, and we do not have Orgle's so-helpful little imp to suck the stains out of this so-lovely rug…"

Sam groaned. "Just, just, let's just see who it is before we discuss dissecting them with vigour," he suggested.

Nabiz turned to open the door, and bellowed in an intimidating bass-baritone that echoed like the booming of an angry elephant seal with opera training: "What lowly filth of The Pit dares to petition for the attention of The Boy King, His Majesty, Lord Samuel, King Of Hell, The Chosen Successor of Lucifer, Heir to the Red Throne, Ruler of Dis, Master of The Realm Below, Commander of the Legions of Hell…"

"Uh, please come in," Sam called, worried that if he let the ifrit run through the gamut of the titles he apparently held then eternity would seem short in comparison.

Nabiz stopped, and shot him a worried look. "Lord, you have not even had time to seat yourself upon The Bidet!"

"I think we can forego that particular protocol, just for today," Sam said firmly, "So, whoever's there, just let them in, and we'll see what they wan- HOLY FUCK!"

The demon without did not enter the room. She… slunk in, thought Sam, that was the only word, not 'slunk' as in 'skulked in a guilty-looking way hoping not to draw attention', but 'slunk' as in 'entered the room with an action that could only be described as slinky, very very slinky'…

"Your Majesty," the young, voluptuous she-demon performed a gymnastically deep curtsey, which had the double action of abasing herself suitably and giving anybody within range an unencumbered view of her astonishingly generous bust, which threatened to burst out of an ensemble that seemed to be made mostly of black silk ribbon, Hollywood tape and optimism. "I beg an audience, a moment of Your Grace's time."

"Oh, uh," stammered Sam, astonished by the sight, "Yes, well, of course, uh, what was your name?"

"I am Ferdinzia, daughter of Duke Ganthery," the she-demon purred, "And I bring an offering, a token of loyalty and esteem, vouchsafed by my father to you…"

"He is the fat one, sire," murmured Nabiz discreetly, like the most capable and unobtrusive assistant to a politician.

"Ah, right, well, I am King of Hell," Sam recovered, because this was after all a demon he was dealing with, "So, first I'll decide whether I want any of you slimy assholes trying to buy favour, then maybe…"

A six pack of beer hit the desk, just as there was another knock at the door, which Nabiz answered.

"What lowly filth of The Pit dares to petition for the attention of The Boy King, His Majesty, Lord Samuel, King Of Hell, The Chosen Successor of Lu-"

"Get out of my way, DICKHED," said an imperious voice that dripped with disdain. It proved to belong to another she-demon, one who was built just as buxomly as the first, but was wearing an outfit that revealed even more. "Announce me."

"I didn't finish," Nabiz said wistfully.

"Oh, stand aside, I shall do this myself," the she-demon snapped. Her expression went from angry to simpering, "Forgive my intrusion, my lord," her voice was as thick and dark as demon blood, "But I am in haste to proffer an offering, a token of devotion, from the clan of Dame Ghazoria, my mother."

Another six-pack slammed down on the desk.

"Yoo hoo!" another female voice called from the door. "Your Majesty! I am delighted to make your acquaintance personally!" The young she-demon had bothered with the extremely shapely body, but hadn't bothered with the whole clothes thing. "As the eldest daughter of your most loyal follower Duke Belaal, may I gift you with…"

She let out a small shriek as another nubile naked maiden grabbed her hair from behind and yanked. The six pack of beer she'd been carrying dropped, and would've hit the floor if Nabiz hadn't reacted with lightning reflexes and dived to catch it.

"Loyal? Loyal?" the newly arrived nude sneered, "Everybody knows that your father is the most devious and persistent schemer, who will stop at nothing until he plants his own scrawny ass on The Bidet!" Her demeanour changed entirely as she stepped forward – apparently, there was a demonic School of Slinking somewhere. "I am so sorry that you were disturbed by this disgusting offspring of a born traitor, Your Majesty, but I hope that this small gift from my Father Duke Anghaar will reassure of the loyalty of our whole clan…"

Yet another she-demon strode in, and whacked Anghaar's daughter with the six-pack she was carrying. With a sigh, Nabiz surrendered, picked up a pot plant, and chocked the door open.

Sam sat, open-mouthed in disbelief, as the female demons hissed and screeched at each other, jostling for space as more of them pushed into the office to join the cat fight, lashing out with fists, nails and bottles of beer – he thought vaguely that if it wasn't demons, Dean should be the one sitting there to watch, because he might enjoy it…

When a bottle of beer broke over somebody's head, he decided that was going too far.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he bellowed, standing up and emerging from behind the desk, "That's enough! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!"

The demons froze where they were, and stared up at him, suddenly realising that the boyish figure was not just any human, but the Boy King, fit to replace Lucifer himself, and he was about to throw a bitch fit that none of them could ever match.

His voice was all the more menacing for being quiet. "I did not ask for a bunch of as-good-as-naked women to come waltzing into my office," he growled, the volume rising as he spoke, "I did not ask for a demonic version of lingerie WWF to break out! Get this through your heads, I do not want your filthy demonic families throwing their young women at me, as if I was some sort of prize stud bull, I do not want you vicious selfish sulphur-stained bitches anywhere near me, I do not want to get dragged into some pathetic popularity contest between the various tribes of scum in this place, and most of all I do not want to have to wait for a computer system to update while I have to watch it tick over ridiculously slowly on a FUCKING ANCIENT MONITOR FIT FOR NOTHING EXCEPT BEING TURNED INTO A QUIRKY FISH TANK!"

He slammed a fist down on the desk, splintering the wood, and then something so terrifying happened that demonity would talk about it for centuries to come...

The Boy King turned to his cowering subjects, and pulled _the_ most epic Bitchface that had ever been seen in Hell.

Its searing power was such that one of the young demons let out an astonished squeak, and suddenly exploded in a puff of ash, which the others warily backed away from.

The she-demons stopped slinking, and fled.

The unwanted visitors pouted into submission, Sam dropped back into the chair, selected a beer that was still cold enough, and let out a groan. "I hate this job." He glanced down at his sleeve, where a small smudge of ash besmirched his cufff. He glared at it until it wafted off and drifted down to the floor to get away from the expression.

"Sometimes, my master Iblis, long may he shit copiously on the heads of the Damned, says the same thing," confided Iblis. "He says, some days, it's barely worth getting out of bed to disembowel the suicide bombers. He says he wants to retire to a volcano and raise garnets. He says, Hell wouldn't be a bad place to work, if it wasn't full of demons."

Sam thought about that, watching the ancient PC update at a snail's pace. "You know what? We should get that printed on some coffee mugs," he declared. "I bet the fiends would love them."

Nabiz's face lit up. "I shall see to it at once, _effendi_!" he said, "Just as soon as I sweep up the pitiful remains of the so-thoughtless she-devil who selfishly disintegrated on the so-lovely rug."

"Good man," Sam drank deeply, and made a mental note to put one of the mugs aside for Orgle. And maybe one for Crowley, because if he had to fill in for that asshole, he reserved the right to stir the shit out of him.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Exposing Themselves Before You In The Departmental Meeting Of Life!*

Anybody else who'd rather skip that particular meeting can join me in the tea room - we'll get a head start on the pastries.


	12. Chapter 12

Dear oh dear oh dear – Real Life has been kicking me in the shins, but Florence has piped up again; I think the plot bunny might've disappeared under the little gold chocolate bunnies over Easter…

It is with great sadness that I have learned that LeeMarieJack, Denizen of the Jimiverse, fellow fanfic author and utterly shameless purveyor/perpetrator/provider/possessor/peruser of wincest, has passed away. I shall miss her reviews and her wit, even if I won't miss some of her more – _ahem_ – lurid literary offerings. No doubt her own afterlife includes a comfortable sofa upon which to recline, a cooler full of beer, a never-emptying packet of indulgent chocolate biscuits, and a couple of Winchester doppelgangers who frolic to amuse her. (There is probably whipped cream involvement, too, but I don't want to think about it too much, frankly.) For those of that inclination, I'm afraid I couldn't possibly write it, not even to honour LMJ, not without replacing every second word with a series of asterisks. Dean had better make sure he doesn't stray into her idea of Heaven, he'll never recover.

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

"So, what exactly are we doin' here, Am?" asked Dean as they made their way through what a human brain would perceive as the magnificent architecture of Heaven, high vaulted ceilings with frescoes that would've made Michaelangelo hand in his paint brush, intricate marble mosaic floors, and subtle but tasteful water features that were relaxing but didn't make you want to go take a leak.

"The news of Castiel's illness has been most unsettling to the Host," Ameniel told him, "I'm afraid we angels do not deal well with change – we are most agitated when the proper order of things is disrupted. Chaos is the preserve of The Eternal Enemy, and there is always the fear that Hell will seize the opportunity to make war upon our Father's kingdom. It will be most reassuring to them to know that, in our brother's absence, the Michaelsword is here as a bulwark against intrusion from Below."

"Yeah, I got a certain amount of intrusion from below myself," Dean muttered, hitching at his undergarment as discreetly as possible. "How is there a damned draft in Heaven?"

The sound came to them well before they made it to their destination. Ebbing and flowing, rising and falling, waves of sound rolled over them as the sublime music of the Heavens spilled from the Throne Room.

"Wow," marvelled Dean, "What is that?"

"That, Michaelsword, is the Choir," beamed Ameniel, "It is their role and duty to sing the praises of Father unto Creation itself. They are eager to welcome you – they have been rehearsing for your arrival."

"Oh," said Dean, plastering onto his face the smile of a visiting Council official who has been told that the First Graders are warming up to present a special play that they have written themselves, "Well, let's not keep 'em waiting." Squaring his shoulders, he strode up to the heavy polished timber doors before him, and pushed them open.

The space within was not actually a physical 'space', which would imply set dimensions, crude and clumsy measurements like height and width and volume, but to Dean it seemed to be a cross between the biggest and most ornate school hall he'd ever seen and a sports stadium that had been redecorated by someone who'd visited lots of Roman ruins at an impressionable age.

It was also packed with as many angels as had been able to make their way to the occasion; they watched him, hope writ large on their faces.

It reminded him of the expression that Jimi wore when he was watching somebody eat bacon.

Wearing what he hoped was a reassuring expression, Dean made his way to the dais where the Heavenly Choir stood arranged around the Throne of The Almighty. At his appearance, the Choir redoubled their efforts, singing joyfully unto the God of Jacob in 128-part harmony (which was all the more amazing given that there were only about a hundred of them).

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory…_

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Demons didn't have friends. They might have consorts, or temporary allies, or acquaintances that they could tolerate for the purpose of getting what they wanted, or enemies of enemies, or even enemies of enemies with benefits, but there was never anything that could possibly approach the meaning of friendship. When demons got together in a social setting, it was a bit like a reunion of a terribly snooty boarding school class, or maybe a gathering of banking executives in the prison yard.

But they had once been humans, even if that was so long ago that the most senior of them could barely remember their mortal lives, and one trait that humans share across countries, cultures, politics and languages is a desire to get together and bitch about the incomprehensible and in their opinion ludicrous conduct of senior management.

Duke Ganthery, senior noble of Hell and the fattest demon ever to plague Perdition with his paunchy presence, scowled into the expensive wine that was flavoured with the blood of the unborn and the tears of starving crippled orphans. "And I instructed her directly to wash first," he stated firmly, "And I know for a fact she did, because I demanded that she present herself for inspection."

Duke Belaal smiled – or at least bared his teeth – at his frenemy. "Well, given that all she can talk about is her imps, she wouldn't have had a chance anyway, not with my daughter there to ply her charms."

"At the very least, my daughter should be warming his bed as we speak," griped Dame Ghazoria, savouring the rich red liquid as she reached up to scritch the extremely well-bred imp sitting on her shoulder, "And your brother Rhangaar is beside himself with pique."

"What for this time?" scowled Belaal, "It was only one of his offspring that was burned out, he has plenty more."

"Not that," Ghazoria told him, "But she was wearing some very rare and precious jewels at the time."

"Well, at least there's something to laugh about," sighed Ganthery, putting down his goblet, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my next plan to displace you both in the esteem of His Majesty and convince him to fry you…" his voice rose as a strange buzzing noise began and then increased in volume. "What in the name of Lucifer's lingerie is that?"

"It's not those idiots in the engine room, is it?" asked Belaal, "Honestly, Anghaal is right, you'd think that an hour or so of zero gee would be within the realm of possibility, given that we inhabit a place beyond the laws of earthly physics."

"And the inconvenience we had to put up with during the switch to these newfangled Red Energy reactors!" Ghazoria reminded him. "Improved efficiency be damned, I was not happy about having to ration my depravity just because of power restrictions."

"Tell me about it," griped Ganthery, "I'd just headed down to the Pit of Perverted Predators, there's something terribly soothing about watching that little guillotine go up and down…"

"Don't try to go all Zen on us, you old fart," Ghazoria interrupted disdainfully, "My spies tell me that you like to collect the bits they cut off, as tidbits for your daughter's imps."

"Yes, well," Ganthery tried not to flush with embarrassment, "My consort likes to feed the little creatures, and if I head down to the PPP for an afternoon and don't come back with some treats for her little pets she gives me absolute hell, but the point is, the point _is_ , what's the point of being there to watch the show if the lights go out?"

"I like the agonised screaming," mused Belaal, "But I agree, it's much better when you can see their faces while it happens. I'm not sure what's more amusing, the expressions when you pick up the pieces to feed to imps, or the looks on their faces when they realise that they're growing another pair so that they can be cut off again…"

"I had no idea you were so fond of the little creatures, Belaal," Ghazoria purred venomously, reaching into her handbag to retrieve a morsel for her own imp, the nature of which suggested that somebody in her clan also liked to collect the trimmings from the eternal torment of unspeakably evil souls.

"Er, well, yes, my, er, my consort, also…" the flustered duke waved a hand uncertainly in Ganthery's direction. "Imps. There seem to be so many of them, especially now that there's a litter of implets."

Ganthery looked at him. "Really?"

"Oh yes, a litter of twelve, she's run off her feet, says that one of them already looks to have the makings of a champion farter…" he stopped, and injected a note of annoyance into his voice. "Honestly, the noise they make at feeding time, it intrudes into my molestation of underage virgins…"

The buzzing sound became louder, morphing into the sound of a klaxon.

"Oh, what is that?" Ghazoria slammed down her goblet and stormed out, "If it's those idiots in R&D again, I really will make good on my threat to give them all an experimental procedure they won't forget in a hurry…"

"I suppose we should investigate," sighed Ganthery in annoyance, waving to a nearby lackey and instructing him to find out what the noise was, "In case there's something happening that I can take advantage of to undermine your standing within the Hierarchy…" he cleared this throat. "Actually, they can be quite endearing at that age, can't they?"

Belaal looked at him sideways. "Well, certainly they don't smell quite so bad when they're only a few weeks old, but they've started to hurl their own dung already…"

"No, no, no, not the implets, I mean the underage virgins…"

Then the lights went out.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

Humanoids probably began to appreciate 'music' in its most rudimentary form, sounds made with the voice and body and improvised percussion instruments, before modern _Homo sapiens_ had even evolved. The involvement of music with important occasions is even older than that, for if God saw Man arise in His own image, then it definitely included a fondness for belting out a good tune.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

As Dean stood listening to the Heavenly Choir, 'belting' was certainly the right word for what they were doing.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

He thought 'bellowing' might also cover it pretty satisfactorily.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

As surreptitiously as he could, he spoke to Ameniel, who was clearly entranced by the music. "Uh, Am, how long does this go for?"

"Not nearly long enough," sighed the angel, rapt. "This is just a short welcome prelude before you speak to the Host."

"Right, right." muttered Dean "So, short, huh?"

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

Of course, the definition of 'short' to an angel, a creature who had been born in a time before time, was bound to be somewhat different from that interpreted by a mortal man…

Dean was a Hunter. A Hunter had to have a capacity to be patient, whether it was sitting immobile in the dark for some monster to show itself or ploughing through a filing cabinet of dusty back issues of a local newspaper in a small suburban library. So Dean was patient.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

Yup, Sam might hassle him about his attention span, but when the job called for it, he could be patient.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

Arranging his face into the expression of stoic resolve worn by Queen Elizabeth II visiting the Pacific region as she sits through three days of Polynesian folk dancing, he did patient.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

After what he reckoned was about three hours, he murmured to Ameniel once more. "So, uh, how we doin' with this short welcome?"

"They are halfway through the first verse, Michaelsword," sighed Ameniel happily.

"Oh, right, look, I don't mean to, rush things here, but really, I think it might be time to move things along…"

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

"Oh, I understand your impatience," Ameniel smiled, "I too am impatient for this verse to end."

Dean blinked. "You are?"

"Oh yes!" enthused the angel.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

"Just wait until they get to the chorus!"

Dean considered his options; pulling the fire alarm had been effective for getting out of unappreciated school gatherings.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

He'd once released a skunk in a classroom to derail a geography test.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

And he'd escaped from a school excursion to see the musical 'Oklahoma!' by faking a completely convincing seizure.

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

But he had a sinking feeling that none of those things would wash in Heaven.

Hey, you are Deputy Sheriff here, he told himself sternly. You are the boss, you are the man in charge, you are the big cheese, the top banana, the alpha wolf here…

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

And you will go deaf, nuts or both if you don't do something RIGHT NOW…

Breaking into a beaming smile, he began to applaud enthusiastically.

"All riiiiight!" he bellowed as loudly as he could, turning his beaming smile on Ameniel, who was looking at him in complete confusion, and then the assembled Host. "Aren't they something, huh?"

The angels at the front of the press began to mutter uncertainly as some members of the Choir stuttered to a halt.

Dean redoubled his efforts. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Host, give it up for the Heavenly Choir!" he cheered. Uncertainly, Ameniel, and some of the other angels before him, began to clap. "Give 'em a big hand, people!" To reinforce the point he let out a piercing whistle of the sort that people insist on doing at live music gigs no matter how annoying it is to the other patrons. "Take a bow, you guys! That's it, stop singing, that bit's important, stop singing and take a bow!"

Angels might not have been good at taking initiative, but taking orders was something they understood; they stopped singing, although there was a certain amount of concerned muttering.

"We are not supposed to receive adulation, it is our task to sing unto the glory of God!"

"I must admit, I am finding it strangely… gratifying to be thanked for our efforts."

"Brothers and sisters, does this not leave us in danger of committing the Capital Vice of Pride?"

"Not at all, for we are following a direct instruction from the Michaelsword."

"But we had not even reached the first chorus…"

"Silence! Be obedient, and bow!"

So, to the thunderous applause of the Host, they did.

When it became apparent that the angels of Heaven were prepared to applaud until the end of time if they thought that is what they had been commanded to do, he held up his hands for silence. They fell quiet, looking up at him with hope and trust, like a dog watching somebody eat a very full roast beef sandwich that gave every sign of being about to shed filling.

Dean gazed out at the sea of faces, and muttered an aside to the Herald. "Uh, so, what do I tell 'em, Am?"

"Reassure them, Michaelsword," suggested Ameniel, "Let them know that in the event of unrest in Hell, you will lead us, for all angels are, at the end, soldiers of God."

"Right, right." Clearing his throat, Dean drew breath, and addressed his troops.

"So, you all know that Castiel, your brother, who's been lookin' after the organisation of stuff up here, is not well. But I want you to know that we have our best people – and in fact, one guy who don't even really qualify as people any more, if I'm honest – workin' on that, and he'll be back again, and shufflin' the paperwork before you know it…"

He stuttered into silence in the uncanny dead quiet of the expansive gathering. He cleared his throat again.

"So, I know that you're all feelin' a bit unsettled, given that things are kind of, uh, untidy, both Up Here and Down There, what with the two head honchos bein' sick and all, and nobody likes uncertainly, especially when you wonder if you're about to go to DEFCON One…"

It would be better if one of them could just shuffle their feet or something, he thought.

"I'm dyin' here, Am," he muttered to the angel, "This is worse than an open mic night where a ninety-year-old Presbyterian minister is tryin' to be funny for a gang of bikers!"

"I suggest you don't try to be funny," Ameniel whispered back, "Nobody could ever be more funny than Uriel, he was the funniest angel in his garrison…"

"I'm just a guy!" Dean hissed back, "How the hell am I supposed to inspire a crowd of angels, for fuck's sake?"

"Well, you are the Michaelsword, Chosen of Michael, Father's general," reasoned Ameniel, "Perhaps something of a martial nature that God's soldiers can understand?"

"Martial nature, right," mused Dean, on the brink of suggesting sourly that he hum a rousing Sousa march, when inspiration struck. Putting on a resolute expression, he turned back to the assembled Host, and raised his voice once more.

"Okay, you're worried about Hell. That's good – it's your job to worry about Hell. What you want to know is, if there is an attack from Hell, what are we gonna do?

"Our strategy in going after this army is very simple: first we're going to cut it off, then we're going to kill it.

"Now I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor, dumb bastard die for his country.

"In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten; then he who continues the attack wins. : I don't want to get any messages saying that we are holding our position. We're not holding anything. We are advancing constantly and we're not interested in holding onto anything except the enemy. We're going to hold onto him by the nose and we're going to kick him in the ass. We're going to kick the hell out of him all the time and we're going to go through him like crap through a goose.

"There is only one tactical principle which is not subject to change. It is to use the means at hand to inflict the maximum amount of wound, death, and destruction on the enemy in the minimum amount of time.

"In the absence of orders, go find something and kill it.

"I will be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime, anywhere. That's all."

As one, the Heavenly Host began to cheer, and behind him, the Choir began to sing again. With a cocky salute, Dean sauntered from the dais, and made his way through the throng, heading back towards the small office space he'd started to think of as HQ.

"That was inspired, Michaelsword!" enthused Ameniel, "Truly words from a great leader!"

"It was, wasn't it," agreed Dean, feeling a bit regretful about the prohibition on dropping on humans, alive or dead, in his capacity of Deputy Sheriff of Heaven – he had no qualms about shameless plagiarising, but he thought it might have been nice to drop in on Colin Powell, Irwin Rommel, Ulysses Grant and the Georges Patton (Senior and Junior) to thank them for their quotes from which the entire speech had been constructed. "Now, let's go see how Zari is gettin' on with Operation Beer."

* * *

Send nice juicy reviews, because Reviews Are The Welcome End To The Interminable Musical Performances Of Life! (I know what I'm talking about, I was practically frogmarched to a performance of 'Oklahoma!' as a teenager and have never forgiven my mother (or Mrrs Rodgers & Hammerstein) for that particularly egregious episode of child abuse.)


	13. Chapter 13

Poor little Florence the plot bunny, I think she misses her readership and her tasty reviews, but I just keep telling her, there might be fewer of us here now, but that means there's more room on the couch and more cookies to go around...

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Having been to college, Sam had mingled with people from a diverse range of cultures and backgrounds, people who spoke English with a strange and wonderful diversity of accents; not only could he tell a South African from an Australian, he could tell an Australian from a New Zealander, and infer whether they were from the north or south. Irish brogue, broad English North country, the musical liquidity of an Indian accent, the laid back sing-song from the Caribbean, he could understand them all.

But the portly and luxuriantly moustachioed demon before him was stretching Sam's comprehension, as well as his own red uniform, as he apparently explained why the power had gone out in Hell. "He's speaking English, right?"

"Indeed," Nabiz the ifrit confirmed, "It is English, _effendi_ , but not as you know it. Usually, we have Mr Crowley here to interpret."

Sam turned back to Hell's senior engineer. "Can you run that past me one more time, Snotty?" he asked. "A bit slower, perhaps."

With a look of concentration the demon endeavoured to make himself understood. "Ye cannae chairrrnge the lorrrrrrs o' diabolics, Yer Marjisty," he intoned seriously, "Nae eeeen fer rrrrrroyilty."

Sam digested that. "Okay, so," he peered at the incomprehensible diagram and pages of scribbled workings before him on the untidy work bench, "What I think you're saying is that there's a problem with, what, capacity? Demand exceeding supply?"

The demon named Snotty beamed. "Tha's juist it, lad," he said, "Ah deed sind Yer Maj, weeel, Hees Maj, tha' fookin' wirthliss _lan dhen cach_ bawbag Crooley, an eeemairl, warrrned him, ah deed, yon scunner bigjobs arrre sooking the poore ahta the grrreed lark a _bruchag_ on 'errr _druiser_ 's dick…"

Ah, email!" yipped Sam in triumph, "You said email! You sent Crowley an email about this!"

The demon appeared to be about to launch into another tirade (or possibly a recitation of his laundry list, it was hard to tell), but appeared to think the better of it, settling for just nodding.

"Well, considering that he probably hasn't logged into his account since sometime in the nineteenth century, we can probably assume that he never got it," Sam sighed glumly. "So, do we know what's causing this?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "I tawdya, barra, 'tis the fookin' Heerarchy – we've loorst reactor Noomber Woon, she's oorfline noo and cannae rrrestarrrrt wi'oot a fool teerdoon ferrrst…"

"Hierarchy?" Sam interrupted. "They're behind this? Is it sabotage?"

"I's juist grrrrrreed," grumbled Snotty sourly. "A surrrrrge took 'er oot. _Mo chreach_ , geeve 'em an inch an' they tairk a maile, geeve 'em all the Reed Enerrrrgy they can burrrrn, and they tairk a troodlewatt, it were diffrent when ah coom orrf the rrrack, I tell yae tha' mooch, them orld brrrrimstone furrrnaces couldnae pu' oot the poore to pull the skin orrf a sinnerrrr, le' aloon mookin' abaht wi' wantin' zairo gees…"

"So basically, it's an infrastructure deficiency," summarised Sam.

"Aye," confirmed Snotty, "We've been roonin' the rrrreactorrs a' moor'n a hoondred an' teen perceent a'reedy, I cannae give yae airny moore, sir…"

"Right, right," Sam sighed, looking around the control room for the engines of Hell: a number of panels and dials were flashing red in a universally worrying fashion that would surely have a starship engineer from the 23rd century protesting that the system simply could not put out any more juice. "Er, just to be clear, what exactly is a troodlewatt?"

"It's ha we misure poore ootput," Snotty replied, "Woon troodle watt, tha's oodles an' oodles o' teerawatts, lad."

"Of course, I should have realised," Sam grunted. "It's so perfectly obvious. In a Hellside sort of way. Well, we can't risk any more reactors going offline, or the situation will get even worse, and the Hierarchy will get even more pissed, and pissed off Hierarchy are liable to start looking for other ways to amuse themselves. We'll just have to put some emergency power restrictions in place, so Mr Scott, er, I mean, Snotty and his team can get on with overhauling the dilith-, I mean, the damaged plant. Then Hell's nobles will just have to learn to live within their means. They survived before Red Energy, they can do it again." He looked to Nabiz. "Do we have anybody Down Here with experience in complex logistics?"

Nabiz pondered for a moment. "Well, there's 'Nummern' Himmler, he played a conspicuous role in establishing a scheme to exterminate an entire religion," he suggested, "And we also have a number of individuals who are here because of their contributions to the business of airline catering."

Sam let out a groan. "Get the plastic food people, they'll do." He paused. "Uh, is that Heinrich Himmler you're talking about?"

"Indeed, _effendi_ ," confirmed Nabiz.

Sam frowned in thought. "And 'nummern' is German for 'numbers', isn't it?"

"I believe so, sire."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is there a reason he's nicknamed 'Numbers'?" he asked, not sure he really wanted to know but compelled to ask anyway.

"It's the tattoos, lord."

"Tattoos?"

"Yes, Majesty. He's covered in them, top to toe. Even his little round so-Aryan pumpkin head."

"I've seen pictures of him, Nabiz, I don't recall seeing any visible tattoos…"

"Not before he arrived in Hell, no – he resides in a small pit where a most assiduous and dutiful fiend tirelessly trains the vipers."

"Vipers?"

"Yes, Majesty."

*sigh* "What does he train the vipers to do, Nabiz?"

"To dip their fangs in the ink pots, sire."

"Ink pots."

"Oh yes."

"At the risk of asking another silly question, why do vipers need to learn to dip their fangs in ink?"

"Why, to write of course, Great One."

"To write."

"Just so."

"Somewhere in Hell, there's a fiend, babysitting Reichsführer Himmler, and training vipers. To write."

"You have grasped it entirely, my lord."

"And the reason that somebody decided that it was necessary for a nest of vipers to learn to write letters was because…?"

"Oh, they do not often write letters, my king."

"They don't?"

"No. Hardly ever."

"Then what do they write, Nabiz?"

"Numbers, O Number One."

Sam let out a most Samesque huff, and a hint of the terrifying pout found its way onto his face. "And why, exactly," he muttered between clenched teeth, "Why exactly is it deemed necessary for a bunch of snakes to learn to dip their fangs in ink and write numbe-…" The pieces fell into place, and Nabiz smiled broadly as understand dawned on Sam's face.

"Ah, I see that for you the small denomination coin has descended, Mighty One," the ifrit grinned, "Indeed, his punishment for his so-wicked sins is to be tattooed for eternity, by trained vipers, with the birth dates of every person who died as a result of his Ultimate Fix."

Sam sighed, and rolled his eyes. "The usual translation was 'Final Solution'," he corrected the ifrit, who bowed in acknowledgement. "Only in Hell. That wouldn't be one of Crowley's ideas, would it?"

"Indeed, _effendi_ ," confirmed Nabiz, "Sometimes, when the Hierarchy is making him feel particularly unappreciated, he likes to go to the pit and listen to the screaming, I am given to believe that it's particularly amusing when the vipers begin tattooing on his…"

"Thank you for drawing me a picture, Nabiz," interrupted Sam.

"The joke, of course, being that no Jewish man would have a…"

"Aaaand thank you again for colouring it in," Sam came perilously close to inflicting a Bitchface™ on the ifrit, but then decided that the occupants of the room really didn't deserve it just because Crowley didn't read his emails. "So, get the plastic food people here – if we don't want Hell to descend into utter chaos, it will be necessary to institute a schedule of rolling outages."

Nabiz looked doubtful. "The Hierarchy will not like that, lord."

The ifrit flinched as Sam gave up on self-restraint and let the Bitchface™ run free. "I need a way to address all of Hell – we need to make an announcement about the situation, and while I'm at it, and I can tell them exactly how many fucks I do not give about what they do or don't like. Come on" With that pronouncement, he stalked out of Engineering.

"He has the manner of a ruler," observed Nabiz as they followed him.

"An' a fairce luik a hoor suikin' orrrn a lemon-flairrrvurred corck," grunted Scotty, turning away from his schematics. "Ploos, the lad dinnae ken plairn Inglish. Bluidy Yanks."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

"This just isn't good enough!" snapped Ghazoria, demon lady of Hell and imp fancier as she prepared a bowl of food for her pets by the feeble glow of a burning arsonist. "The whole point of the Red Energy revolution was to provide us with the power to do what we want! That's the only reason we tolerated its introduction!"

"Well, largely it does," her consort reminded her as he sat squinting at a large occult tome he was reading, "Remember what it was like with the old brimstone furnaces - some days, there was barely enough power to keep the Lake Of Fire molten. I remember that picnic we were having, I found the ambiance to be quite spoiled when the whole thing resolidified, and the sinners stopped screaming and just started walking ashore on the surface."

"I don't want to hear it," Ghazoria shot back – after all, she had once been a human, and when she was enjoying a nice satisfying bout of ungrateful outrage, the last thing she wanted was a bit of a reality check to remind her that in fact progress had been made and in earlier times things had been much less comfortable and convenient, "What I want is to be able to clip Perdition Domme Despair's claws properly! Make yourself useful, light another arsonist."

"Domme Des… do you mean Polly?" He regarded the little-she imp who sat on the arm of his overstuffed chair, and reached out to scratch her under the chin. "Yes, she could do with that, she nearly tore my hand off yesterday when I brought back the treats from the Pit of Perverted Predators…"

"So, light me another arsonist!" demanded the demon dame.

"I think that was the last one," her consort mused, standing up and regarding the Damned soul. "He should last a bit longer, though, he's got quite a bit of fat on him – it's the wicking effect, you know."

"Well, it's not enough – find something else!"

"What do you suggest, my demonic dove?"

"I don't know, use your brain!" Ghazoria spat. "Improvise!"

"I know that Rhangaar bought some terrorists from Jehannam on the undernet for just such an occasion; he never has trusted Red Energy, and he says they do burn with a lovely clear light, and the bewildered looks on their faces when you take them out of the box and they realise that there are no virgins, just eternal punishment, never gets old…"

"I've never understood the attraction of virgins," mused Ghazoria. "They're not much fun if they don't know what they're doing."

"But they do taste good, once you get them peeled," he pointed out.

"The point is, I need a better source of light NOW," demanded his lady, "So send someone to fetch, I don't know…"

"Perhaps a politician or two might do the trick – after all, once they're here, they all have their pants actually on fire…"

They were interrupted by the boom of a crackling sound, interspersed with a couple of thumps and some muffled swearing; the noise seemed to emanate from the walls, from the floors, from the very fabric of Hell. It made all of Perdition shudder, as even the most distant corner of The Pit echoed with its inescapable sounds.

It put some older demons in mind of the way that Lucifer's anger could make the very foundations of Hell shake.

m.

It put some younger demons in mind of an announcement over a school PA syste

Whatever it reminded them of, every single one of them heard it, and cowered in anything from tense alertness to abject terror; the Lord and Master of Hell was about to make his will known unto all of his realm…

 _SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

"-ure this thing works?"

"R&D assures me it is so, _effendi_." _Tap tap tap THUMP_

"Well, at least it means I can do this without having to look at 'em. So, okay, occupants of Hell…"

" **Lowly filth of The Pit, cease your depravities! Curtail your proclivities! Terminate your activities! Halt your incivilities! Restrain your hostilities! Subdue your enmities! Suspend your brutalities! Quell your insalubrities! Quit your animosities! Stifle your…"**

"I think you have their attention, Nabiz, why don't we move it along…" _TAP TAP TAP_ "…Is this thing even working?"

"… **Tremble in fear, O miserable sinners, and attend to the commands, pronouncements and wishes of The Boy King, His Majesty, Lord Samuel, King Of Hell, The Chosen Successor of Lucifer, Heir to the Red Throne, Ruler of…"**

"Why don't we just get to the" _skrEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_ "announcement?"

"But sire, I haven't finished, your position demands a certain minimum of ceremony."

"You can send out a global email later, okay? Right." _shhhhhhhhhhhh THUMP_ "Okay. Attention all occupants of Hell. This is your boss speaking, so…"

" **Ruler of Dis, Master of The Realm Below, Commander of the Legions of…"**

"I think they've got the idea, Nabiz… so, all occupants of Hell, now hear this. There have been some unavoidable interruptions on the provision of power to The Realm Below, due to critical infrastructure difficulties…"

"Yon Hierarchy ha' url the self-contrrrrrrorl o' seerlers ashore 'n turrrrned looise in a hoorhoose…"

"However, we have our most senior technical staff working to correct the problem as soon as possible…"

"… An' i' that stinkin' kludgie o' _land hen cac cluigeans_ cou' juis' storp overrrrloodin' the sestem ferrrr woon fookin' week…"

"Meanwhile, a series of rolling outages will be implemented in order to minimise the disruption to the equilibrium of Hell. Suck it up. Screw you all, and have a really despair-inducing day. That is all; as you were."

 _SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee_ _ **EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**_ _thump_

"What about the fucks, lordship?"

"Huh?"

"You were going to inform the disgusting worms beneath your so-worthy feet about the fucks that you will not give them."

 _BANG_

"I think they can figure that out for themselves, Nabiz, just shut this thing off before it sets something on fire… whoops, too late."

* * *

If there's anybody out there, send Florence lovely reviews, because Reviews Are The Amusingly Incomprehensible Swearwords In The Conversations Of Life!


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"So, Host reassured," Dean said in satisfaction, leaning back and putting his feet up on the desk, "Now, how do I get in touch with Zari, chase up my beer?"

"I shall send a Herald to check upon the progress of her mission," Ameniel assured him, "But perhaps you would like a coffee while you make a start? It is a habit that Castiel has cultivated."

"Nah, I'd rather get straight to the beer…" Dean's brain moved on from the thought of alcohol, and caught up with the conversation. "Make a start? On what?"

"On your duties of course, Michaelsword," smiled Ameniel.

"Right, right," nodded Dean, "Duties. Of course. After all, bein' the Deputy Sheriff don't mean I can sit around here and do nothin' all day."

"Just so," Ameniel inclined his head.

"There must be lots of things that need doin', to keep Heaven runnin' smoothly," Dean mused, "Like makin' sure no demons try to assault the place – there have to be demon detection patrols around the clock, so to speak, I bet – and keepin' Heaven's weapons secure, the last thing we want is celestial nukes in the wrong place, I know what I'm talkin' about here."

"Oh, you are completely correct," agreed Ameniel.

"Okay, so, if there aint beer yet, I might just have that coffee first…" he paused. "Uh, how do I get a coffee?"

"Our brother Castiel calls one forth when he wants it," Ameniel informed him. "Usually in a brightly decorated mug. I am reliably informed that the mugs are deemed amusing, by human standards."

"Well, I dunno if you noticed, but I aint exactly the real deal," Dean sighed. "I'm only temping here. I aint a real angel, I'm like, you know, Angel Lite – not as powerful, but better for your cholesterol."

"And yet, being proxy for Castiel, you will be able to perform those functions necessary to carry out your duties," Ameniel reminded him, "So, perhaps if you think very hard about coffee…"

"You think?" Somewhat doubtfully, Dean shrugged. "Well, I guess I got nothin' to lose, except maybe a minute or so, so…"

He closed his eyes and thought about coffee.

He thought about coffee the way he thought coffee should be: not one of those frothy syrup-tainted abominations that his brother favoured, but coffee the way the gods of The Bean had intended it to be – black, properly black, not just black because there wasn't any milk in it, but black because the very soul of the bean was black, dark and bitter, having been spawned by a plant that has been raised on compost and hatred, coffee that jumped up out of the cup and slapped you if you tried to put froth on it, coffee that could not be tainted with milk, because if you tried it would just sneer 'Fuck your milk' and not change colour at all, coffee that could practically be served by the slice, provided it didn't dissolve the knife, coffee the way he liked his coffee…

He opened his eyes again when his nose twitched at the wafting scent reaching it.

On the desk beside his feet was a cheerful blue mug emblazoned with 'I'M NOT ALWAYS A SMARTASS – just kidding, go fuck yourself', and it was filled with a dark, thick liquid from which arose the enticing aroma of pure caffeine-filled fuck off. Emitting small inarticulate noises of happiness, Dean reached for the mug, sniffed deeply, and tasted it.

"Oohhhhhh, that's so good, I think my tongue just came…"

"Er, yes, Michaelsword," said Ameniel, "Does that mean that the beverage is satisfactory?"

"It's more than satisfactory, Am, I think this stuff could successfully get an entire Freshman class through the year without sleepin' at all." He smacked his lips in satisfaction. "So, I'll just finish this then…"

He let out a small yip and jumped as there was a very loud and very solid THUMP in front of him. His eyes bugged as he looked up at the angel who had arrived in his office, and then at what appeared to be a very large, very tall, and above all very numerous pile of folders.

"Uh, what exactly is that?" he asked tentatively.

"This is one of your tasks, Michaelsword," Ameniel explained, "These need to be reviewed before they can go to the Archives."

"Reviewed? What, by me?" The angel nodded smilingly. "But I've got something more important to do, I gotta go patrol the borders, inspect the magazine, keep Heaven safe from incursions…"

"Oh, there are many Warriors of Heaven, Soldiers of God, to do that," Ameniel told him dismissively, "You are too important for that drudgery."

"I am?" echoed Dean in a small voice.

"Oh, yes, Michaelsword, it would be beneath you to spend your time on lowly sentinel patrols, while the business of Heaven requires your attention."

Dean picked up the top folder as if it was a poisonous snake, hoping that it would be Enochian and he could plead ignorance, but there was no such luck. "So, uh, what's this, then?"

Ameniel craned his neck to look at the document. "Ah, that one is an Incident Report, Michaelsword. Let me see… yeeeeees, one of the fledglings clipping the Pearly Gates again, I'm afraid, it happens at that age, they're all confidence but no experience."

"And this one?" Dean selected another folder.

"Oh, that will be the stationery requisition and reconciliation," the angel answered, "From Danael." His voice became hushed. "See, it has the Library stamp on it? I suggest that any documents from The Senior Librarian be dealt with and returned to her as promptly as possible."

"Returned?" Dean looked perplexed, "Why do they have to be returned?"

"Well, for the Archives, naturally."

"Why doesn't she just file 'em right away, then?"

Ameniel looked shocked. "Oh, she couldn't possibly do that until they've been reviewed and approved."

"What?" Dean eyed the folder again. "Why do they have to be reviewed and approved?"

"Why, so they can be filed in the Archives, of course! In all seriousness, I do recommend that you deal with that one as speedily as possible."

"Oh, come on, Am, it's a tab for usin' paper clips or something," Dean rolled his eyes, opening the folder, "How damned important can the statistics on glue stick usage be in the grand scheme of thi-"

A gloved had emerged from the folder and cuffed him upside the head. "Deal with this at once!" boomed an emperious voice. "Deal with this at once! Deal with this at once! Deal with this at once!"

Dean picked himself up off the floor and slammed the folder shut. "What the fuck?" he yelped.

"I did warn you," Ameniel commiserated. "Senior Librarian Danael does not like the messaging system that some of the younger Heralds have devised; she would prefer to speak to you – or at you – herself."

"But she's not even here!" Dean complained. "She just made a piece of paper yell at me!"

"It could have been worse," the angel shrugged.

"How?" demanded Dean, thoroughly peeved, "A, a, a stationery receipt just slapped me! And is yelling at me! How the hell could it be worse?"

"Well, there was one time, a folder slid down the side of the desk, and Castiel did not notice it for some time," Ameniel's voice became hushed, "And when he finally saw it and picked it up to review it, her True Voice came out. It was… not nice." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I really do strongly recommend that you give it your immediate attention."

Dean had been living with his little brother for long enough to know when he was never going to win an argument. "Right, right." he sighed, taking in the pile before him. The angel was wearing the optimistically expectant expression that Sam usually did after plonking down a huge pile of newspaper back issues in front of him in a small library or civic records office when they were researching a job. "Well, I better get started, I guess, at least there's coffee."

"Excellent! The Heralds shall bring you the next batch when you are done."

"What?" Dean's head snapped round in anxiety. "What next batch?"

"Well, obviously, this is just the first task, the Incident Reports," Ameniel explained, "After the library receipts, of course." As he spoke, two more young Heralds appeared, bearing armfuls of paperwork. They murmured salutations, deposited the folders, then bowed, and withdrew as discreetly as very expensive and teddibly British butlers.

"Am," Dean stated firmly, eyeing the workload, "The only way I'm gonna get this lot out of the way is with a leaf blower. Or possibly a flamethrower. I bet my sword would set this lot on fire."

"Oh, er, well, perhaps you could, er, postpose those for a short time, and make a start on the correspondence," suggested Ameniel, gesturing at a teetering pile in a tray on the edge of the desk, and holding out an ornate fountain pen and what turned out to be a piece of parchment.

"Okaaaaay," Dean regarded this new horror warily. "Uh, who exactly does Heaven Inc., you know, correspond with?"

"Oh, other pantheons, Michaelsword," replied Ameniel, "If it would be helpful, I could ask Senior Librarian Verael to come and speak to you about the importance of maintaining good diplomatic relationships with other gods. She can be quite… emphatic on the topic."

"No, no, that's fine," Dean cut in hurriedly, "No need to disturb Her Librarianness, she's a busy angel, got all those books to stamp, all those documents to correct, all those imps to bite the heads off…" Gingerly, he took the sheet off the top of the pile. Frowning, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed. "Ya know, I'd swear that this one has had beer spilled on it…"

"May I?" Ameniel took the note, and peered at it. "Oh, yes, I recognise this stationery. See the little motif of ravens around the border? 'Hail Castiel, Child of Yahweh, Warrior of His Hall and Carl of His House', it's from Valhalla…" he scanned the document. "Oh dear, it appears that an occupant of the Garden of Companions has been causing… ructions again."

"Ructions?" Dean looked perplexed. "What sort of ructions?"

"He is a most peculiar beloved soul," Ameniel began, "For though he was spawned of a diabolical nature, yet he is deemed by many to be one of the most likeable Companions we have ever had come to Wait in the Garden…"

As he spoke, a distant woofing came to their ears; Ameniel's face became concerned, as Dean's lit up in a beautiful smile.

"I know that bark!" he cried happily as the noise became louder.

"Indeed, Michaelsword," sighed Ameniel, "So do I, and so does every Herald in Heaven."

A moment later a large black shape burst into the room, making a beeline for Dean.

"Jimi!" he yelled in happiness, "Jimi Senior! How ya doin', fella!"

Jimi Senior, full blood Hellhound-turned-Rottweiler-shaped-Hunter's-Dog, jumped to put his front feet on Dean's lap, tail wagging furiously, as he greeted the Alpha for whom he Waited.

"Oh, it's so good to see you!" enthused Dean, scratching the dog's ruff and ruffling his ears, "Oh, you'd be so proud of your kids, they're doin' so good, especially Jimi Junior, he's the best Hunter's dog on the planet…"

Giving another happy woof, Jimi Senior left off greeting Dean, and turned a cheerful face to Ameniel, dropping into a cheeky play-bow, his entire rear end waggling in the air with excitement.

With a pained expression, the angel leaped expertly into the air and hovered just out of range as the dog jumped up at him, woofing excitedly. Ameniel reached into the recesses of his robe, and pulled out what proved to be a liver treat, tossing it across the floor. Jimi immediately gave up on trying to catch the angel, and shot across the room to retrieve it.

"It would be gratefully received if you could contrive to persuade the animal not to chase Heralds, Michaelsword, at least until such time as his Waiting is over, and you come to claim his companionship permanently," commented the angel in a voice suggesting that the speaker was doing his very best to inject tact into the tone, if not completely succeeding.

"Cas has a theory about that," mused Dean, watching as Jimi snuffled across the carpet in search of the treat, "He thinks it could be because, uh, Jimi here had such a short mortal life as a dog, he didn't get to do enough doggy things, like chase mailmen, so now he's here, he chases Heralds instead, because they're Heaven's mailmen."

"Be that as it may, his antics, as innocent and devoid of ill intent as they are, can be… disruptive to our duties," Ameniel said as sternly as he dared. "And seeing him here now, I suggest that you make a start on your correspondence, particularly that first epistle."

"Yeah?" Dean grabbed Jimi by the collar as the dog finished the treat and turned back to the angel. As he did so, he noticed that the collar was shiny, finely crafted, intricately decorated, and generally a lot more expensive looking than a dog's collar should be.

"Yes," confirmed Ameniel, "I do not anticipate any long-term difficulties as a result of this incident – after all, they are dog people in Valhalla, and Jimi Senior likes to visit them, Father help us – but I believe that if you inspect that closely, you will find that he is wearing Freya's dwarven necklace. Again."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Crowley let out a mournful noise, then stopped quickly when he heard the growling.

"He doesn't like me," he complained, eyeing Jimi Junior warily; with the Winchesters absent, Jimi had decided that Castiel was the next closest thing to One Of My Pack Who Needs My Attention And Protection, and had taken up station on the end of the angel's bed. "Send him out."

"It's just because he's feeling worried about one of his people," Sister Felicity reassured him with a small smile.

"What? Clarence?" scoffed Crowley. "He's not a Winchester. He's not even a people!"

"Neither are you," said Castiel, his voice still raspier than usual.

"Family don't end with blood, asshat," snapped Bobby, handing the angel a mug of soup.

"I wish mine would," sighed Crowley, "I'd pay good money to see my mother end in blood. Preferably her own, but I wouldn't be picky, so long as she ended…"

"And you got Gedda with you," Bobby indicated the little teacup Hellpoodle snoozing in His Demonic Majesty's lap; at the sound of her name, she lifted her head, and wagged her tail.

"Yes, well, yes, well," humphed Crowley, reaching down to pat the fluffy little head , "That's different. She's my dog, and she loves me, don't you my darling?" The little teacup Hellpoodle rolled over for belly rubs. "I'm an important demon, she's an important Hellhound, it's entirely appropriate for her to attend me. Cujo there is not even your dog!"

"And yet I find his presence to be somehow… reassuring," Castiel mused. "I cannot explain why, but his presence makes me feel less dreadful."

"There have been many studies on the benefits of having a companion animal visit the sick," said Fic firmly, "So both of you will keep your furry friends. Now, it really would be good for you if you could try to eat some of this soup."

"Soup," moaned the demon, "Soup. I'm the King of Hell, when I decide I want to eat, I dine at the most expensive establishments, on the finest and rarest and most environmentally unsustainable delicacies, and wash it down with obscenely priced alcohol…"

"If your nose is a stuffy as it sounds, it would be wasted on you at the moment," Fic said sympathetically, "Your sense of smell is very closely interlinked to your sense of taste. So, don't be a diva, Crowley, come on," she held out a spoonful of soup.

"Ohhhh, I feel so dreadfuuuuuul," whined the King of Hell.

"I know," she sympathised, "But I'm afraid that until we can work out exactly what is wrong with you, all we can do is manage your symptoms as best we can. So…" she waved the spoon.

With the air of one who is doing a favour by selflessly performing a task that is well beneath one's dignity, Crowley ate the soup. "Actually, I must admit, that is quite good. Somewhat restorative."

"Excellent," smiled the nun, handing him the mug.

The demon turned a face like a mournful blood hound to her. "Do you think I could get some more grilled cheese?"

"Of course, Crowley."

"Thank you, Sister."

"Triangles or squares?"

"Oh triangles."

"Crusts on or off?"

"Off, please."

"I'll be right back," she stated, heading out of the room with Bobby. "And maybe some tea, or a lemon drink, with perhaps a medicinal tot of something in it?"

"You read my mind, dear lady."

"Not really," the nun grinned, "But I recognise a fellow appreciator of the good stuff when I see one. Eat your soup."

Crowley dutifully began spooning up his soup as Fic and Bobby left the room.

The smile fell off her face as they headed down the stairs. "If you don't get some sort of award for this, there aint no justice," he chuckled.

"An Oscar," scowled the nun as she began to prepare grilled cheese. "At least one Oscar. I hope my, "Father-in-law is watching, I expect some serious Days of Indulgence to be granted for this."

"Not sure that bein' nice to a whinin' demon counts as doin' good works," Bobby pointed out, "Weren't mentioned at all in Catechism classes, if I recall."

"I'll get my Husband to write an addendum," Fic waved a hand dismissively, "He is the head of the Catholic Church, you know, the guy in the dress and tiara is just keeping the seat warm until He gets back."

Ian looked up from where he was studying one of Bobby's books. "What's He going to do, if He does return and find out just how many 'wives' he has?"

"What He's told, if He's got any sense," Bobby grunted, shuddering somewhat at the thought of having more than one wife, "Any progress?"

"As good as none," sighed the vampire, shutting the book and yawning. "How's Operation Housetrain Crowley going?"

"I'm three quarters of the way to sainthood," griped Fic, "Mother Theresa has nothing on me."

"I've been wondering if we might try a very simple test to determine whether this, whatever it is, is of demonic origin," mused Ian, "Something simple, like an old-fashioned blood grouping agglutination test."

Fic considered that. "What, get a blood sample, and look for some sort of reaction with, with, with what? Holy water, versus holy oil?"

Ian shrugged expressively. "I'm grasping at straws here; any information, no matter how general, might help."

"Could be worth a try," nodded Fic, "After all, what's the worst that could happen?"

"Well, since we have no idea what we're doing, we could inadvertently perform a working, blow Bobby's house up, transform ourselves into malformed and bloodthirsty undead travesties of humanity, or maybe just tear a hole in the spacio-temporal fabric of physical reality and release a swarm of vengeful demons upon the world to tear the defenceless human race to pieces and reduce this planet to a burnt wasteland."

"So, just another day in Paradise, then," observed Bobby. "Whaddya need for this test?"

* * *

There, Jimi Senior makes an appearance - The Denizens do seem so fond of him. Don't feel bad for Crowley, it could be worse; he could have Rowena looking after him. What are Ian and Fic up to? Will Dean ever get his beer? Feed Florence the plot bunny reviews to find out, because Reviews Are The Delicious Grilled Cheese Snack In The Kitchen Of Life!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Dean tried to chew on the end of the pen he was holding, then stopped; it was made from something a lot harder than the usual cheap plastic ones he was accustomed to.

"Hey, Am!"

The angel appeared with a familiar _flap-flap_ noise, on the other side of the room. As soon as he did, Jimi Senior sprang from snoozing to woofing excitedly at the speed of happy dog, and bounded towards the Herald, who sprang into the air whilst searching the folds of his robe for a dog treat.

"You called, Michaelsword?" said Ameniel solicitously, "Have you completed the correspondence?"

"Uh, not exactly," Dean replied sheepishly, "I was, uh, I was just wondering what this pen is made of."

Ameniel gave him a look suggestive of a professor of theoretical mathematics who has been called on to work out the tip on a diner bill. "Made of, Michaelsword?"

"Yeah, made of," Dean repeated, waving the pen. "Oh, uh, sorry."

"It is no matter," Ameniel assured him with a small sigh, waving a hand to make the spray of ink droplets disappear from his robe, "In your perception, it would be electrum."

"Really? Oh. Wow. That's… that's kind of amazing. But very celestial. Very heavenly." He gave the angel a bright smile. "Thanks, Am!"

"You are welcome, Michaelsword." The angel looked hesitant. "Er, your face, Michaelsword…" He gestured briefly to his own.

"Huh?" Dean glanced in the reflective surface of the pen stand. "Oh, damn, not again…"

"Chewing on a fountain pen is inadvisable," cautioned Ameniel. "I did say," he added with just a hint of reproach.

"Right, right," Dean sighed, then closed his eyes and thought very hard about rubbing a washcloth over his face. "There. Did I get it?"

"You missed a bit."

"Right. Hang on, I'll try again…"

"Will that be all, Michaelsword?"

"Er, yeah," Dean replied, "Thanks, Am. I'll just get back to, uh, yeah," he waved a hand despairingly at the piles on the desk. The angel nodded, threw a last treat to Jimi, then disappeared.

Dean let his head fall forward to land on the parchment he'd been writing on, then sat up and checked his face for more ink. It felt like he'd been doing paperwork for eternity, and for all he knew, he _had_ been doing paperwork for eternity. Hoping against hope, he paused, and tried to think very hard about beer, but met with the same lack of success that he'd already had half a dozen times.

"I mean, how does that work, huh?" he complained, reaching down to pat Jimi Senior; the dog rested his big square head in his Alpha's lap, and gave him an earnest expression of sympathy. "I can call forth coffee, but not beer. How the hell does that work? This is meant to be Heaven!"

With a reassuring whuff, Jimi paused a moment; something sticklike appeared in his mouth, and he offered it to Dean.

It was one of the treats the dog had enjoyed most during his short mortal life: a bull chew, the dried pizzle of a steer carcass.

"Thanks for the thought, buddy," Dean smiled ruefully, "But it's not really my thang." He sighed again. "Maybe it's because Cas has never called forth alcohol in here. Or maybe it's just that only souls in Heaven can have whatever they want…"

Telling himself to man up and stop whining, he turned back to the parchment, patting Jimi's head as he did so. "Maybe I should put a bell on your collar," he said with a grin. "Or some sort of GPS device." He picked up the pen.

… _and so I want to say that I am really, really sorry about your sun disc. Jimi probably thought it looked like a frisbee, and that's why he wanted to grab it. I've had a look at it, and the damage doesn't look that bad, if you like, I'm pretty sure I can hammer out the teethmarks. However, I am not sure if I can help you with the crocodiles – how do you even tell if a crocodile has been traumatised? But if there's such thing as a crocodile trauma counsellor in the Field of Reeds, then I will be happy to repay any expenses you incur in getting them the help they need…_

There was another _flap-flap_ sound, and Dean bit down on a small wail of despair.

"Look, I'm working through this stuff as fast as I can, you try keepin' a straight face while apologisin' to an Egyptian god because his poor little crocodiles have got PTSD just because Jimi tried to get them to play fetch with a sun disc…"

"I have returned, Michaelsword." Dean looked up; resplendent in her armour, Zariniel stood before him, chin lifted, her face resolute with accomplishment. She was accompanied by Maveriel, the healer. "I have completed my mission. I have brought you beer."

Dean's mouth dropped open, then he smiled widely. "Zari!" he cried happily, "Oh, it's great to see you back! Well done!" The angel flushed briefly under the praise. Okay, so, call it forth!"

With a small bow, the angel gestured, then handed him a ceramic jar.

Dean didn't let his smile falter. "Oh, er, okay." He sniffed the top of the jar. "It definitely smells like beer." The top was sealed with what appeared to be beeswax, but he got it open and peered into it. "Although I have to admit it doesn't quite look like what I was expecting. So," he forced jollity into his tone, "Where did you get the beer from, Zari?"

"From the reward of an ancient Egyptian, Michaelsword," the Warrior of Heaven replied. "The earliest Christians were found in the Middle East, so that seemed the most logical place to start looking."

"Right, right," Dean nodded, "So, this is beer. Egyptian beer."

"Ancient Egyptian beer," confirmed Maveriel. "One of the first human civilisations to brew the beverage."

"Yeah, well, that's, that's, really interesting," Dean went on. "What's also interesting is the way that this seems to be a lot more, uh, well, solid than what I was thinkin' of…"

"It was a staple foodstuff for humans, back then," Maveriel spoke in the tone of someone holding forth about a pet interest, "In ancient times, the safety of drinking water was often compromised in populated areas, so it was drunk daily by children and adults alike in many parts of the world."

Dean looked doubtful. "Are you tellin' me that the ancient Egyptians were all drunk, all day, every day, even the kids?"

"Oh no, Michaelsword," the angel smiled, "For the alcohol content is quite low – it was the process of boiling the water, and introducing non-pathogenic microbes into the wort to out-compete any pathogens, that rendered it safe to drink – it was made with a bread-raising yeast, so too high an alcohol content would kill off the culture anyway."

"Well, that's… extremely educational," said Dean, trying not to droop too hard. "Oh, hey, while you're bein' education, you wouldn't happen to know what electrum is, would you?"

"It is an alloy of gold and silver," answered Maveriel, looking somewhat bewildered, since he was not accustomed to dealing with the handbrake turns that a conversation could take when talking to Dean.

"Yeah? Wow. We live and learn. So, uh, thanks again, Zari, mission accomplished." With another bow, the Warrior of Heaven disappeared. Dean put down the jar, dropped heavily back into his chair, and groaned.

"Are you feeling unwell, Michaelsword?" asked Maveriel a little anxiously.

"No, Mav," Dean smiled ruefully, "I'm just feelin' a bit… snowed under."

"Castiel sometimes likes to listen to music while he works," suggested the angel, "He says it helps the travails go a little faster."

Dean brightened at that. "That's a great idea!" he enthused, "So, where's the stereo in here…"

Maveriel threw open the door and called loudly "Raise the volume, if you please!"

 _Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts, the Heavens and Earth reflect His glory!_

With a small shriek, Dean leaped for the door. "You kids turn that racket down!" he bellowed before shutting the door again. The Choir obliged with barely a stutter in their singing. "Crap," he muttered, "Did I just say that? 'You kids turn that racket down'? Did I actually just say that?"

"Castiel enjoys the music of the Host," Maveriel sounded bewildered.

"Look, I'm sure they're very talented, Mav, but seriously, do they only know the one song?"

"It is a song with many verses, Michaelsword."

"Yes, yes it is," sighed Dean, "I don't suppose they could do Stairway to Heaven, or something? No? Didn't think so. Gaaaaaah!" He slammed down his pen. "It's all so… so… so…"

"So, what, Michaelsword?"

"So Heavenly!" Dean wailed. "I'm not used to things bein' so Heavenly!" There's paperwork! There's tunics! There's beer that's more like thin oatmeal! There's classical music! Jesus H. Christ, is there classical music…"

A bearded face framed by long hair popped around the door. "Is that a rhetorical question made as an exasperated observation, or do you actually want Me to answer that?" he asked brightly.

Dean stared at him. "Who the fuck are you?" The man didn't answer, he gave Dean a cheerful thumbs up, and disappeared.

"You were warned," Maveriel frowned, "The Son has a very human sense of humour."

"Oh, God…" Dean slumped forward, then suddenly looked around anxiously.

"The Father does too," Maveriel added, "But He is more subtle."

Dean exhaled sharply, then looked up with an expression that alarmed the angel. Sam would've recognised it as the expression that meant Dean Has Thought Of A Way To Get What He Wants, Be Afraid. "Er, Michaelsword?"

"This is Heaven, right?" he noted with a slow smile.

"Yes, of course."

"Then, somewhere in this celestial realm is beer I can drink."

"You cannot intrude upon a soul's eternal repose, even as Chosen of Michael…"

"Oh, I aint gonna intrude anywhere," Dean said, "I'm makin' an executive decision about the deployment of resources, personnel distribution and environmental optimisation."

Maveriel looked worried. "What manner of diabolical incantation is that?"

"None at all." Dean stood up, and so did Jimi, tail wagging. "Oh, hang on, before we go, tell the Choir I said they should learn a different song… don't worry, look, it's set to a very traditional tune, very classical, very, you know, choiry, one associated with the birthday celebrations for the smartass who's technically my brother-in-law, I'm told…"

"I resemble that remark."

Dean threw a scrunched up bit of parchment at the grinning head around the door. "Fuck off, hippie," he growled, "Or I swear I'll go find nails and a hammer, so, I'll just write this down, and they can start rehearsing…"

He spent a minute scribbling, then handed the parchment to the angel who stood, stunned, staring at the man who had just told the Son of God and Man to fuck off. After calling him a hippie. And threatening to reprise the Crucifixion. "You'll catch flies, Mav," he warned. "Or cherubs, or whatever. Now, you go do that. Am! Am! Michaelsword to Am, do you copy, come in Am, over…"

Ameriel appeared. "I am here Michaelsword, what do you require?"

Dean smiled widely, and put a hand on the Herald's shoulder. "I need your mad navigation skills."

"Certainly, Michaelsword. Where are we going?"

Dean told him.

Ameriel's mouth dropped open as he assumed the same stunned expression as his brother Maveriel.

But, obedient to the command of the Michaelsword, he took wing.

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Sam scowled at the figures standing before him; they were not young, as demons go, but they still winced as the full force of The Pout hit them.

"Look, you're demons," he said, letting the Bitchface™ sear them, "I know that. I also know that the one thing a demon hates most is other demons. I understand. I do. It's only natural for you to scheme and connive and seek advantage and want to destroy for the sake of causing carnage. It's what you do. I might as well as tell a fish not to swim, or a guido not to tan. And provided all you wanna do is tear each other into subatomic shreds, that's fine by me. But this?" His gesture took in the whole group. "This pathetic attempt at an overthrow? It's bad enough I've been shanghaied Down Here to keep this place running, for an ungrateful bunch of total assholes, and yeah, I might've expected this, and I can handle that, I can."

The Bitchface™ cranked up another notch; some of the demons staggered.

"But the sheer incompetence! The stupidity! The stench of your ineptitude, your clumsiness, your complete and utter idiocy is an insult, and I find it totally offensive!"

Sam was not happy.

He had been in conference with the IDIOTs (the In-house DAMNATION Installers, Operators and Techncians, DAMNATION being the Diabolical Archive Management, Notation And Technical Infernal Office Network) to try to get Hell's IT system running at a minimally functional level, which had been made even more difficult by the rolling blackouts, he had sought an update from Snotty in Engineering and immediately regretted it, he had been required to step in to referee a number of squabbles between members of the Hierarchy before the demonic disagreements (some about the eternal struggles for power, some about perceived bias in the judging at imp shows), he had been unable to find a decent latte, the upholsterer had not finished repadding the Red Throne, and he'd had to burn out two more demons to get Hell to understand that he absolutely did not want to have sex with any young female demons no matter how much beer they brought him.

But it was the complete and utter incapacity of Hell's denizens to see the advantage to themselves of stability that really drove him crazy.

"Don't you get it?" he ranted, "Some of you have been here for, how long? Centuries? Millenia? Haven't you worked it out yet? Hell needs stability! It needs continuity, equilibrium! If you want to keep doin' the demony shit you do, you can't do that unless the place runs! Hell has to exist, okay, because there will always be sinful souls, and demons, and there will always be a requirement to, to, to accommodate the Damned, so Hell has to exist, and it has to _run_. And it _cannot_ run if you are so intent on destroying each other and anything else that gets in your way for the fun of it! It _cannot_ run if there is nobody to have oversight of the whole place, and sort out problems, and make sure the Red Energy flows, and the souls arrive, and the whole system keeps working. And it _cannot_ run if _you morons won't let it because I keep having to deal with stupid shit like this!"_

As his voice rose in pitch and volume, one demon let out a frightened squeak, and with a small _floof_ noise, suddenly vanished in a puff of ash.

"God, my brother said it's people who are crazy, it turns out demons are all brain dead assholes too," Sam muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to get his temper under control. "I can't vaporise all of you, although it might be fun to try, so I'll have to do the next best thing."

He seated himself at the desk, and tapped at the computer. "Okay, there are vacancies in the next workshop, I'll book you all in…"

The demons prostrated themselves before him, wailing and begging for mercy, but he was the Boy King, Lord of Hell, without pity or compassion for those over whom he reigned.

"Nabiz, give these assholes their pre-course reading, and get them the fuck out of my sight."

With a grim mien, the ifrit handed out a series of workbooks, with imposing gothic script on the front cover.

 **LIVING WITH DIFFICULT PEOPLE – strategies for coexisting with those you don't get along with**

Moaning and weeping with fear and dread, the demons trooped out of the office.

Sam let out a groan and slumped to the desk, murmuring a small apology to the computer mouse as it let out an annoyed squeak. "They are all idiots, Nabiz," came the muffled voice.

"Indeed, Terrifyingly Educational One," agreed Nabiz, "If they were prudent, they would have conducted themselves so as to avoid being Damned in the first place."

"How are we going with that application form?" asked the Acting King of Hell.

Nabiz glanced at the printer; half a ream of paper sat in the print tray. "Nearly finished Section One, I believe."

"Great". Sam added another item to the To Do list he had been compiling:

 _\- Redesign and simplify Stationery Requisition Form_

"Any luck with the coffee?" has asked. He really wanted coffee. He hadn't been able to get decent coffee. And he missed it. It was making him cranky. Well, crankier.

"I have located a soul who in life worked with coffee making machinery, O Suboptimally Caffeinated One," Nabiz replied.

Sam lifted his head, hope on his face. "You found a barista?"

"No, a man who serviced the coffee dispensing machines in a large hospital."

Sam let out a sad noise. "I want to get drunk," he moaned.

"That might perhaps not be wise, sire," cautioned Nabiz, "After all, you became quite angry last time."

"Yeah, you're right," Sam sighed, glancing at the printer; his Hell-induced bender had included giving the printer such a Bitchface™ that the first try at printing the Stationery Requisition Form and burst into flame. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I need some rest. This place is doing my head in."

"Very well, my lord," Nabiz bowed, "What shall I tell any pitiful scum of Perdition who come seeking an audience?"

"I don't care!" snapped Sam. "Tell them, tell them, tell them I'm doing something depraved and don't wish to be disturbed and if I am I'll be so unhappy I'm bound to turn several nearby demons into small amusing stains on the carpet, and anybody still standing afterwards will be required to suck those stains out."

Nabiz considered that. "Last time, you were reading a book, about a flat world on the back of a giant turtle, where a man restarts a postal service."

"In Hell, that's probably considered perverse," muttered Sam. "Look, just make something up."

The ifrit bowed as he stalked out.

Nabiz was nothing if not efficient; when Duke Anghaar next came demanding that power be diverted for him to attempt intimate congress in zero gravity, Nabiz smoothly lied about what Sam was doing. And it worked; the duke withdrew, looking thoughtful.

It did lead to an unfortunate situation later, when the Hierarchy clans all began sending him beer via the most attractive male offspring they had, but after the Boy King let out a shriek that echoed through all of Hell and pouted so epically that a couple of them were reduced to mere shadowy outlines on the wall that proved adequate to discourage the practice.

* * *

Poor Dean. Poor Sam. The things they do to keep people safe. What next? Feed the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Amusing Stains On The Carpet Of Life!*

*when you are not the one who has to get them out.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Heraiel the junior Herald straightened her robe before she picked up the bundle of files; she would only appear briefly to complete her task, and would not even be required to speak to the Michaelsword (unless of course he spoke to her, which she really hoped he didn't, because she'd be far too nervous and might say something to disgrace herself) but nonetheless she wanted to present an appropriately orderly appearance. Taking up her burden, she squared her shoulders, and took wing.

Materialising in the small office space, she deposited the pile on a corner of the desk, then bowed, preparing to leave.

"He's not here."

Startled, Heraiel looked up.

A senior Herald sat slumped on the desk, looking resigned.

"Ameniel? Brother?" she asked, concerned, "Is something wrong? Where is the Michaelsword?"

"Not here," sighed Ameniel. "You'll need to take those to him."

"But where?"

He told her.

She blinked. "Really?"

"Really."

"Oh. Er, well, I, um, I had best be going promptly, then…" she paused, cocking her head. Something was not right…

"It's the Choir," Ameniel forestalled her, "He didn't like their singing."

"What?" the younger Herald's mouth dropped open. "How could he not like their singing? It is sublime!"

"Right at this very moment, 'sublime' is not exactly the word I would choose," confided Ameniel.

Curious, she paused, and listened carefully to the Choir. The tune was different, although in the grandly formal style to which they were accustomed to perform, but the words were decidedly… not sublime.

 _Angels you have heard on high,_

 _Shriek until you want to cry._

 _On and on we screech and wail,_

 _It's the way we say 'All Hail',_

 _Glooo-o-o-o-o-oooo-o-o-o-o-oooo-o-o-o-o-oooria, in excelsis Deano,_

 _Glooo-o-o-o-o-oooo-o-o-o-o-oooo-o-o-o-o-oooria, in excelsis Dee-ee-ano…_

"Oh."

"Well may you say 'Oh'," agreed Ameniel. He held out something to her. "I suggest you take these with you."

"Er, thank you, brother."

Donning the headphones, she picked up her files again, and once more took wing.

Ameniel looked around the small space that his brother Castiel used for his oversight of Heaven. By nature he was not one to question authority, especially that of Michael's Chosen, but…

It was the moment where, out of the concerned crowd, somebody would say 'Somebody must do something!'

And that somebody, Ameniel realised gloomily, is me.

He looked at the earthenware jar on the desk; it might've been ancient Egyptian beer, but it was beer nonetheless, complete with alcoholic content.

Ameniel grabbed up the jar, drained the lot, then squared his shoulders, and took flight.

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Dame Ghazoria raged around the opulently appointed room of her residence; she put her consort in mind of an angry elephant seal, an angry elephant seal wrapped in expensive red velvet, yes, but an angry elephant seal nonetheless. He didn't tell her that of course, because he might've been a demon, but he wasn't completely stupid.

"You seem more upset than usual, my demonic dear," he noted equably, "I know the power outages are vexing you, shall I light another terrorist, Rhangaar was right, they burn for ages with such a lovely steady light and the bewildered shrieking adds a lovely ambiance, I find…"

"Lucifer take you and your terrorists!" she snarled at him, "What I want is the Boy King's head on a spike, dipped in obscenely expensive resin from a critically endangered species of tree, set on fire to brighten up my mood!"

Her consort considered that. "Could be difficult, my Damned darling," he mused, "He has an unfortunate habit of, well, pouting at anyone who annoys him, and it's one murderous moue, you must admit. You saw how irritated he was when that bunch of young idiots tried to stage a coup – I have no idea why he got so uptight about it, the youngsters are just rebelling against authority, it's just what youngsters do. I'm afraid that he'd vaporise your gophers, lackeys and sycophantic hangers-on before they even got within scowling distance."

"That's just the problem!" Ghazoria snapped, "He's got half my underlings off at these _workshops_ ," she said the word as if it tasted nasty, "These _workshops_ , where they are supposed to learn how to tolerate each other, _and_ refrain from killing off Ganthery's lackeys unless it's absolutely necessary, _and_ the arrogant jumped-up little tyro refuses to grant me an audience unless I make an _appointment_! On that newfangled electronic system! Which doesn't run because _the power keeps dropping out_!"

"Well, he is the ruler of Hell," her consort pointed out reasonably, "It's not his job to make your afterlife pleasant, he's supposed to do things like spend his time feasting orgiastically on rare delicacies until he's sick and fornicating rampantly with several young and attractive and gymnastically accomplished nubile partners at once..."

"That's just spin from that wretched ifrit," Ghazoria cut him off, "He doesn't. Fornicate. My spies tell me that when he retires, he doesn't fornicate."

He looked up from his book. "What, not at all?"

"No."

"Not even with one at a time?"

"No."

"Not even with a woman?"

"No."

"Not even with a consenting adult woman who can't get her ankles to bend let alone behind her head?"

"No."

"What about the orgiastic feasting?"

"It doesn't happen."

" _What?"_

"My spies assure me not."

"No feasting? Not even non-orgiastic?"

"Apparently not. He ate something called a chicken salad."

"Ah, well, there you are, then, dismembering animals and devouring them live and bleeding can be such good fun, watching their trusting little faces…"

"The chicken was already dead."

"What, pre-slaughtered?"

"Yes. There was lettuce involvement. And an apple."

"Not served to him on the naked shivering body of a terrified underage girl, I suppose?"

"I am reliably informed that a plate was used."

Her consort considered that. "Then what the hell does he _do_ in there?"

"He reads."

"Reads?"

"Yes. He reads. Books."

He looked down at the book he was holding, and smiled at a particularly lurid illustration. "Well, there's nothing wrong with a good old fashioned bit of explicit pornography, the detail on these prints is amazing, it's like the nipples are staring you in the face…"

"Not books like that. Books without pictures. Written books."

Understanding dawned on his face. "Ah, well, it's only to be expected, the Ruler of Hell would busy himself with arcane grimoires of powerful spells, the better to terrify and cow his subjects."

"It's not a grimoire. It's a story book."

He looked uncomprehending. "A… story book?"

Ghazoria curled her lit at her consort. "Is there an echo in here? Yes, a story book! A book with a story in it! A ridiculous story about a haunted building and a man who tries to deliver letters." She paused. "I'm told that there was a brief appearance by dogs who bore a striking resemblance to Hellhounds, but were not actually Hellhounds, since all they actually did was sit on command."

Her consort's bewilderment continued unabated. "That's… that's just ridiculous!" he burst out, "I mean, if I was King of Hell, I'd do all the orgiastic feasting I could, off pretty young things, so you can molest and eat the 'crockery' afterwards, saves on the washing up, and as for fornicating," he chortled heartily, "By thunder, I'd procure an entire cohort of young, beautiful, shy, frightened, virginal victims, and then I would desport myself in perverse and unnatural ways with… you, my dear, while they waited in another room. As long as you were in the mood."

Ghazoria's searingly bitchy expression was not as terrifying as the Boy King's, but it wasn't too far off.

"You used to love a good long perversion," he muttered a little sadly.

"It's impossible to be in the mood for perversion when the ruler of Hell is reading stories!" Ghazoria griped. "Workshops! Emails! Maintenance schedules! Chicken salad! And he refused an invitation to be the guest judge at the next imp show!"

"Ah, that's what's really getting to you," her consort nodded knowingly, "Rejecting your offspring, you could handle that, but he's insulted your imps." He scratched the little creature on the arm of his chair under the chin. "I don't care, Polly, I think you're the most beautiful, most wonderful, most smelly and most tremendous farter I've ever met…"

"He is not fit to reign in Hell!" Ghazoria ground out between clenched teeth. "Many of the others agree with me."

"Well, I'm not sure what you can do about it," shrugged her consort, smiling as the imp chittered happily at him. "You can't assassinate him, you can't depose him, he is Lucifer's Heir. And it's not as if you can appeal to a higher authority."

"We'll see about that," she muttered, stomping from the room.

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Ian Gregson was, by nature, a patient man. He had Hunted with several younger Hunters, all of them having been of the not-exactly-completely-human persuasion, and all of them being, in his professional opinion, chronic smartasses, and he had never done more than fantasise about strangling any of them. He was nearly two hundred years old, and anybody who gets to that age without just slapping somebody at some point for being completely insufferable is, by definition, a very patient person.

Crowley, however, was testing this most desirable quality, and had definitely found his way onto his List Of People I Have Imagined Strangling With My Bare Hands And Smiling While I Do It list.

"Get away from me, you abomination!" squeaked the King of Hell, clutching the covers to his chin as he dissolved into a coughing fit. "You're not sucking blood out of me like you were some sort of vampire!"

"Crowley, I _am_ some sort of vampire…"

"You see? You see? I'm right!"

"Look, I have no intention of biting you, all I want to do is use a sterile, single-use syringe to get a small blood sample…"

"Oh, and you think that makes it better, do you?"

"For the last time, Crowley, I want a sample of your blood for purely medical purposes…"

"You're not treating your iron deficiency at my expense, pal."

"Look, you're a demon, technically, you don't even need your blood…"

"Technically I shouldn't be able to get sick, either – I trust 'technically' even less than I trust you."

"Would it help if I demonstrated what I'm going to do on myself first?"

"Don't you _dare_ think about sticking that thing in me after you've stuck it in yourself, I might catch something!"

"It would be a completely new syringe for you, of course."

"You wanna tell me why it sounds like limited offer coupon day at Walmart in here?" demanded Bobby, entering the room.

"Crowley has some concerns about having a blood sample taken," said Ian, trying very hard not to roll his eyes and almost succeeding.

"We've been over this, asshat," Bobby growned at the scowling demon, "We need all the info we can get about your symptoms."

"Am I hearing raised voices?" asked Fic, bringing in a tray, "What's going on?"

"Miss McLeod here is bein' shy," Bobby muttered.

"I am not letting that creature near me with a fang, or a syringe," grumbled Crowley.

Felicity put down the tray, smiled, and sat on the edge of his bed. "Now, Crowley, you're not afraid of a little hypodermic, are you? Castiel wasn't afraid."

"I can assure you that Dr Gregson's technique is highly competent," the angel rasped, showing his own arm. "You get a Peanuts band-aid afterwards."

"Bollocks to you and your Peanuts band-aid!" snapped Crowley, "He's not sticking one of those things into me!"

"Would you like me to do it?" the nun asked brightly. "I was very good at getting blood out of people. When I was working as a doctor, I mean, using a needle, not as a cop, using a fist, well, I think I was pretty good at that too, if I'm honest, but I am not suggesting…"

"I am," Bobby interrupted, "You got a choice here, asshole – either you let one of the nice guys do a quick and clinical venepuncture, or I'll do a slow and protracted facey-puncture, which will involve me usin' a blunt object to hit you repeatedly in the face until you bleed enough for us to scrape some into a sample tube."

With a thin wail, Crowley pulled the covers over his head.

"Come on, don't be a baby," Fic insisted, "Just stick your arm out, you don't have to watch."

The wailing continued as an arm reluctantly emerged from the tangle of bedding.

"Now, if you are a good patient, perhaps I can prepare you something special for dinner," she went on as she opened a new syringe, "Have you ever had bread and butter pudding made with croissants?"

"You can't bribe me with carbohydrates," insisted the muffled voice under the covers, "You could probably cajole the Squirrel with a promise of pie, or maybe dangle a freshly slaughtered lettuce in front of Moose, but otherwi-AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGH!"

"There we go, that was easy."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR…"

"Your veins are certainly more cooperative than the rest of you."

"…RRRRRRRRRRRRRR…"

"You have a good robust medial cubital vein, very good valves."

"…RRRRRRRRRRRRRR…"

"I've had to deal with some absolute shockers, yours is a textbook example."

"…RRRRRRRRRRRRRR…"

"Shut up, idjit, she's done!"

"…RRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHH-" Crowley stopped yowling, and peered suspiciously out from under the blankets. "She is?"

"She is," confirmed Fic, holding up the small syringe containing a couple of ccs of dark liquid. "Several seconds of 'AAAAAAAARGH!' ago."

"What do you hope to find in the samples?" asked Castiel.

"We're gonna see if we can identify any pathogenic organisms," Fic lied smoothly, "And do a simple stain for white cells. The number of different cell types present might give us clues as to what sort of immune processes are at play, which in turn can point to what sort of causative agent might be involved." She allowed her face to become serious. "I'm afraid that's the sticking point, we just don't know anything about the nature of whatever's causing this."

"Without any idea about what is actually making you sick, where it's come from, how it got to you, then coming up with any sort of countermeasure is very difficult," confirmed Ian.

"But you are working on it, aren't you?" asked Crowley anxiously.

"Of course we are," Fic smiled at him, "And we will keep working on it until we have some understanding of what's happening here. Now, let me fix your pillows, then eat your soup…" she paused, her face concerned. "Crowley, you're wiggling again, is there some other symptom that…"

"No, no," the King of Hell said just a little too brightly, "Just getting as comfy as I can."

"Perhaps I should just check."

"No, I assure you, dear Sister, nothing is amiss."

She fixed him with a professionally compassionate gaze. "Crowley, since you have been spending so much time in bed, you may be at risk of developing decubitus lesions."

"What's that?" asked the demon anxiously.

"Bed sores," Ian replied grimly. "Not something to make light of."

"Definitely not," Fic agreed, "It can happen alarmingly quickly when somebody is bedridden, but there are strategies to prevent them before they establish and become serious: we can get you a sheepskin for you mattress, and massage can be extremely beneficial…"

"No, no, no bedsores here, I assure you," Crowley informed her glibly, "Despite the truly tempting thought of being massaged by such a wonderfully attentive care-giver, she's showing you up in the ministering angel department, Bobby, it pains me to say it but the good Sister here is just eclipsing you…"

"If the only way to save the world from an intergalactic nuclear holocaust was rubbin' your ass, the entire world could go hang," snapped the old Hunter.

"…But should I start to feel a suspicious twinge, you shall be the first to know, dear lady, and might I add that you were a loss to the medical profession, and the other Establishment does not deserve you."

"You do that," she said with a smile. "Don't be shy, Crowley, you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

He offered her what could only be described as a cheeky grin. "One day, I shall explain to you how I came to be a demon. Please do pass that plate over, it smells wonderful."

The invalids were left to their food.

"I had forgotten how… nice it is to have someone care about my welfare," Crowley sighed, poking a toast soldier into his boiled egg, "Oh, she's done it just how I like it."

"Sister Felicity is earnestly practising Charity, and performing good works, in caring for you," Castiel said, "It would be prudent to tell her about the furuncules on your…"

"No it wouldn't!"

"You heard them, Crowley, they need all the information they can get about what is making us unwell, it might be a vital piece of evidence."

"They have Bobby on the case," muttered Crowley, "He'll work it out without needing to look at my… oh, now you've made me think about them!" he wiggled unhappily. "And don't you tell them either, I mean it about stealing your tissues!"

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When Heraiel landed outside the door, she could hear a faint pounding thump, like the heartbeat of a mountain, coming from behind it. Giving her robe a quick straighten, she opened the door.

As she did so, the music hit her like a physical force. If she hadn't been wearing the headphones, she might not have been alert enough to dodge the round object that went whizzing through the air past her nose. As it was, she barely had time to leap into the air as the large dog went lumbering past.

"Gangway! Oh, sorry." She gawped briefly as the Michaelsword grinned at her in a most humanly evocative way. "You're one of the Heralds, yeah?"

"Indeed, Michaelsword," she raised her voice to make herself heard, then looked around; she had only ever heard about this room place – she had never had any reason to visit it, not having had any interactions with humanity before. She knew that Zachariah had died there – an uncharitable thought about what a stuck-up and patronising know-it-all he had been whizzed treacherously through her consciousness before she could squelch the uncharitable thought about one of her brothers – but otherwise had never known about much about it…

The Michaelsword followed her gaze to the mound of glistening ice that bristled with bottles of beer. "Hey, you want one?" he asked brightly, taking one himself and twisting off the top, then drinking deeply with evident satisfaction.

"Er, no, thank you, Michaelsword," she stammered, "It is most generous of you, but I must be about my duties."

He sighed, then gestured carelessly to a sideboard; files were already piled there. "All work and no play will make you a dull angel," he cautioned, grabbing an item she recognised as a type of food called a 'burger' from a platter. "Hey, you bein' so ancient and all, tell me, are there any bans on angels eatin' pig meat, or dairy and stuff, you know, like in Talmudic law?"

"Er, not that I have ever been instructed, Michaelsword," Heraiel blinked at the unexpected question. "I believe that when they were first established, the traditional Judaic prohibition on the meat of the pig and shellfish were sensible public health measures, given that seafood would spoil rapidly in the Middle Eastern climate and pigs are quite physiologically similar to humans and so can readily transfer parasites, most notably roundworms of the genus _Trichinella_ …"

"Awesome!" He offered her one of the burgers. "Double cheese baconburger. Try one."

"Um, thank you," the angel accepted the gift, thinking that it would be rude to do otherwise. "Er, shall I tell Ameniel that you are, uh, returning soon?"

Dean considered that. "I think I'll move the desk in here," he decided, "Hey, if you see him, could you ask him to arrange it?"

"Of course, Michaelsword," she bowed, and prepared to leave.

The burger turned out to be useful after all; when she encountered Jimi Senior returning with his frisbee, she was able to distract him from chasing her by flinging it at him before making good her escape.

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Sister Fic fussed around the demon, and then the angel, for a few minutes, then headed downstairs to where Ian and Bobby were peering at a couple of chipped ceramic tiles on the living room table.

"Traditionally, this would be carried out on white tiles," Ian chuckled, "What exactly are these?"

"Samples from the rebuildin' of this place," Bobby told him. "I believe that one was called 'Avenging Avocado', and that one was 'Baby Shit Yellow', or something… so, what exactly are we doin' here?"

"The celestiodiabolical equivalent of the old agglutination test," Fic explained. "Before the advent of formal serotyping, the way to find out if somebody's blood was compatible with somebody else's was to mix samples of them together; if they were non-compatible in the A-B-O scheme of things, the mix would react, and start to clot, as the immune elements from at least one sample recognised the other as non-self. Look."

He let a couple of drops of blood from each syringe fall onto one of the tiles, and mixed them with the end of a matchstick. Within moments, it took on a granular, lumpy appearance, and fizzed a bit.

"So, that's angel blood mixed with demon blood – both recognise the other as something that's foreign."

"And this is where our test reagents come in." Fic reached for the small bottles. "Holy oil, holy water. Holy oil works like the closest thing we have to an anti-angel reagent. So, if we do the same thing with both samples, and mix 'em with holy oil…"

She set up the tests, and mixed. Crowley's blood sat as an inert oily blob, while Castiel's seethed and bubbled on the tile.

"See? Castiel has, uh, something of a celestial nature in his blood, and Crowley doesn't."

"So, if we do it with the holy water," Ian took up the explanation as Fic set up the next tile, "We would expect to see Castiel's blood unreactive, whereas the reaction with Crowley's would be expected to be somewhat vigorou-"

The sudden blast caught them off guard, hurling them all to the floor.

"Balls," grumbled Bobby, climbing to his feet and waving a hand to dispel the smoke. "Okay, so, Crowley's blood reacted pretty damned vigorously, all right."

"That was Castiel's blood," corrected Fic, as Ian helped her up. They all peered at the test.

A dark black splodge and a crack in the tile marked ground zero.

"So, there's somethin' in Feathers' that don't like holy water," noted Bobby. "Somethin' demonic."

They repeated the holy water test with Crowley's blood a lot more carefully, using much less of each component; the reaction was still pyrotechnically impressive.

"Well, I never was too fond o' that table cloth," Bobby shrugged philosophically."

"Without control samples, from a demon and an angel that aren't apparently affected – or infected – it's not possible to draw a scientifically watertight conclusion," cautioned Ian, poking carefully at the scorched glob on the last tile, "But you saw the background reaction Castiel had to an anti-celestial liquid – the holy water test was completely out of proportion, compared to that, so…"

"…With the limited information available, we can hypothesise that both of them have something 'infecting' them, and that something is of a diabolical nature," finished Fic. "Whatever it is, chances are, it originated in Hell."

"Which means, His Moping Majesty knows more than he is lettin' on," growled Bobby. "Nothin' like this could happen without his tacit knowledge, and it's way more likely that it's his doin' in the first place."

"So, how do we get him to fess up?" mused Fic thoughtfully.

At that point, there was a knock on the door.

"Are we expecting company?" asked Ian.

"Not that I know," muttered Bobby, headed for the door.

When he answered it, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit stood before him, looking decidedly harassed. "Mr Robert Steven Singer?" he asked. Then he hiccupped gently.

"Who's askin'?" demanded Bobby.

"My apologies, Mr Singer, I should introduce and explain myself. My name is Ameniel. I am an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven. And I am come unto you to seek your assistance…"

"Out of my way, you grovelling lackey," instructed an imperious voice. It was followed rapidly by an imperious woman, large of frame and unhappy of expression, wearing an extravagant gown that put Bobby in mind of a panto dame costume. "You are Bobby Singer, yes? Good. I am Ghazoria, Dame of Perdition, you may address me as 'My Lady', not while I'm speaking, obviously, now conduct me to your most decent chamber where I may issue you with my demands."

* * *

Poor Bobby, why does everybody come to him with their problems? He's right, he really is an idjit magnet.

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	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Hunters are not the only ones who are familiar with the concept of karma, the principle of spiritual cause and effect.

Some form of it is present in many religions: Eastern belief systems hold it as a formal tenet relating to an individual's mortal incarnation, good fortune in exchange for good deeds, while those of the One God of Israel extol virtue to earn eternal reward after physical death.

It comes naturally to humans, who seem to be born with an understanding of, and a certain relish for, the idea of cosmic comeuppance, what goes around comes around, or You'll Get Yours Just You Wait You Asshole. They are prepared to believe that it is a fundamental property of the universe, just like the force of gravity, the speed of light, the mass of the electron, the inevitability of a photocopier breaking down at exactly the moment it is most desperately needed, and the idiocy of duck-faced orange-skinned celebrities.

It is familiar to magic users: the very first thing a would-be caster of spells learns (if they are lucky enough to have a prudent teacher) is that magic, like a high-powered car or a chainsaw or a pot of royal icing, is ultimately just a tool – if you put in the effort to become proficient, you will learn respect for the Craft as you gain expertise, but until then, you'd better practise humbly and within your own limits, or you will inevitably come unstuck, crash and burn, lose a limb, or end up with a cake wreck and a mess on the kitchen floor. Recognise your own limits; it's probably better if, figuratively, you keep the ageing Volvo, buy your firewood pre-cut, and stick to Betty Crocker frosting, because the single certainty in spell-casting is that whilst Nature might abhor a vacuum, it really really doesn't like a smart-arse either.

Due to the nature of the job, Hunters are often more directly acquainted with karma than most people. Bobby, as a Hunter with enough smarts to get old and a Man of Knowledge, had always conducted himself accordingly, only taking drastic action if he was prepared to wear the consequences.

Which could only mean, he thought as he gazed at his two most recent visitors, that either a) The Powers That Be were a lot more pissed off than he'd anticipated about him putting that cardboard box in the landfill trash because the recycling bin was full, or b) in a previous incarnation he'd been very, very, very naughty indeed, involving some heinously unforgiveable crimes like mass murder, child molestation or talking at the movies. Given that there was no occultly charged sign at his front gate reading ' _ **ROBERT S SINGER – solver of all your supernatural dilemmas, conundrums and difficulties – non-human entities' problems a specialty – no appointment required, just come on in!**_ ', the only other explanation was karma.

So, as usual, he just rolled his eyes, then served tea and cookies on general principles.

He turned his attention back to the litany of complaints from a demon who was somewhat imperious and an angel who was somewhat intoxicated.

"…An' the tone of the letter he was writing to Osiris, well, it jus' won't do," said Ameniel earnestly, listing very slightly to starboard, "Old Baldy izza cat person, really, not fond of dogs, well, not fond of Jimi, tha's for _*hic*_ sure, he likes hizz hunting hounds, but Jimi rolls in the Apis bull's dung, an' then sits on 'is throne, an' he doesn't like that, an' 'is wife, Isisssis, she's always been a bit stuck-up, if 'm honest, so you can see tha' relations with the Field of Reeds are already fraught – they've never really forgiven us for the Ten Plagues thing, I don't think, and I'm really not sure that I _*hic*_ can blame them…"

"Yeah, well, diplomatic communication has never been Dean's strongest suit," agreed Bobby, pouring the distressed angel more tea.

"I mean, I mean, frogs? Plague o' _frogs_? Tha' one was Gabriel's doing, o' course, he is my big brother, an' I love him, but sometimes he's an idiot…"

"If the tone of that letter was anything like the tone of voice the Boy King uses, I'm not surprised there is consternation brewing Above," noted Dame Ghazoria – she had been positively peeved to find herself stuck in a Devil's Trap, but the cookies Bobby served with her tea had gone a long way to reminding her of her manners (demons, like small children, are perfectly capable of behaving like civilised human beings if they realise that it will get them something they want). "I do realise that it is not the role of the Ruler of Hell to be accommodating, but honestly, meetings? Workshops? Powerpoint? The torture is supposed to end once one is transformed into a demon!"

"In another reality somewhere, Sam fit right into the corporate world like a ferret down a pair of British trousers," stated Bobby, his tone indicating that he found the idea both somewhat sad and somewhat terrifying, "Got a very orderly mind, that boy, leastways, he's got a mind that likes to think in an orderly fashion, systematic approach to a problem. Been like that since he was a kid."

"Usually in a good way, he's an idiot, but an idiot nonethess… noneless… not the… he's an _*hic*_ idiot all the same, still, frogs, they're a delicacy in some parts of th' world, I believe…"

"There are rumblings, Mr Singer," the demon lady went on, "It is usual and natural for demons to plot and scheme against each other and their ruler, I myself would seek to depose him if I thought I could do it before he pouted me out of existence. The only thing that's holding back Ganthery's clan is the fact that the fat old letch can't work out how to log the entry in the computer system, and His Majesty insists that it's all done electronically, yet he's conveniently left out the appropriate classification, I mean, can you actually classify someone as 'Out Of Office' before the actual coup has taken place?"

"…An' the platypus, tha's all Gabriel's fault, too, y'know, Father was rather annoyed at that, the beak was s'posed to go on a species of duck, but Michael spoke up for him – wish we could have Michael back, he'd know what to do, an' he never wanted beer, although I'm changing my mind about that…"

"And so I turn to you for assistance," Ghazoria gave Ameniel a look of utter disdain. "Before the unrest in Hell becomes… inconvenient."

"It better not," humphed Ameniel. "Become inconvenient. For us. Up There. 'Cause, 'cause, 'cause, we got the Michaelsword, an' he looks _*hic*_ most fearsome in his armour, even if he does this sort of hitching thing from time to time, an' he'll lead us to victory over you, you… you… you… you."

"Are you so certain?" the demon lady purred contemptuously. "If you did but see His Majesty's power, angel, you would quake before his wrath, you would be burned to oblivion by his anger, you would be willing to eat your own wings lest he compel you to make an 'I' statement…"

"He's Michael's Chosen!" snapped Ameniel, "The Righteous Man, an' he's, he's, he's, righteous! An' chosen! And chosen to be righteous! And, and, and, _we have beer_!"

"If we could just stop with the chest-beatin' and get back to the matter at hand," Bobby tried not to roll his eyes, "We don't actually want a battle, do we, huh? Think about it. What is it that you want? Not war. What both realms really want, really crave, is order, stability, continuation of things as they are, so you can keep on doin' what you're doin'."

Both his most recent visitors looked at him with sheepish agreement.

"So, in order for that to happen," Bobby went on, "There has to be somebody at the helm, somebody runnin' the show, somebody sittin' in the big chair. Otherwise, your lot would fall to tryin' to beat the shit out of each other to take over, and your lot would flap your hands and your wings and do the celestial equivalent of run around in circles. And both of you would recognise, whether you like it or not, the pool of candidates to do that successfully is kinda limited."

"I suppose I should ask after that little worm Crowley," the sneer practically dripped from Ghazoria's voice, "If nothing else, he has proven himself to be… useful. He keeps the place running."

Bobby cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sayin' that you miss Crowley?"

Ghazoria gave him a humourless smile. "Oh, yes, I miss Crowley, but if I keep practising, my aim will improve…"

"How is my li'l brother Castiel?" asked Ameniel anxiously. "Is he getting better yet?"

"They are as well as can be expected, under the circumstances, and we have their treatment in hand," Bobby said sternly. "So, the guys on the shop floor aint completely happy with new management. What exactly do you expect me to do about it?"

"Talk to him!" begged Ameniel, swaying gently. "Or at him, if need be! You're like his Father, Mr Singer, so, you know, guide him, instruct him, chastise him if you deem it _*hic*_ necessesser… nessary… nerresser… if you have to – grant him Revelation as to what he ought to _*hic*_ do!"

"The Boy King will defer to you," Ghazoria said firmly, "My spies tell me that you are probably the one person he will listen to. Discipline him. Instruct him. Direct him as to how he is to behave."

Bobby couldn't help but smile. "Son, I've been tryin' to grant Dean Winchester revelation since he was a boy, and as for instructing Sam, well, if he's of a mind to be instructed, he'll instruct himself, but if he aint… and as for chastisin' or disciplinin' either of 'em, heh heh, they're long since too big to be put over my knee, or grounded, I can't even threaten to lock the gun safe or hide the books any more, besides which, experience has shown that if either of 'em wants somethin' badly enough, they're prepared to pay the price, whatever the punishment may be. So, I ask you again, what do you expect me to do?"

"Help," Ameniel looked as if he might be about to cry. "Please. At least tell him to turn the _*hic*_ music down."

"He is deemed intelligent by human standards, is he not? It ought not to be beyond his wit to act as judge at an imp show, nobody expects complete impartiality, we are not completely unreasonable…"

Bobby sighed. "Idjits," he moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I am beset by idjits. I don't know what I did in a previous life, but it's pretty clear that I was one evil sonofabitch… all right, leave it with me, I'll see what I can..."

"Am I hearing voices?" asked Sister Fic as she entered the room, checking when she saw the visitors. "Oh, that's all right, they're outside my head, that's always reassuring."

Bobby muttered something about rampant idjitry under his breath. "Fic, this is Ameniel, an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven," the angel gave her a slightly cross-eyed smile, "And this advert for hormone replacement therapy and diet shakes is Ghazoria, a demon of Lucifer, an asshole of The Pit."

"I am a noble lady of Perdition," sneered Ghazoria, "My title is Dame. It will amuse me to have you greet me, cringing bride of the Nazarene – demonstrate your much touted humility."

Fic smiled, and took the hand that was imperiously offered. "I am glad to meet you, lady," she said pleasantly, going to one knee."

Ghazoria turned a smirk of triumph to Bobby. "You see? She recognises true power when she sees it."

"Well, yes," agreed the nun, "But it also gives me a better opportunity to do this."

Still smiling, she stuck a syringe into the demon's arm.

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"Well, that really clinches it," Ian pronounced as they watched the results of the blood test repeated with the samples procured from an unaffected angel and demon, "Control angel blood doesn't react with holy water, and control demon blood does to a certain extent, but it's not as, well, pyrotechnic as Crowley's."

"I'm not sure if we can truly regard Ameniel's blood sample as a 'control'," mused Fic, "Since I'm pretty sure that it's a small but significant percentage by volume of alcohol rather than blood."

"Mind you," Ian went on, "That she-demon's language was pretty pyrotechnic after you stabbed her."

"I didn't stab her," protested Felicity, "I just kind of pierced her. For science. Was she wearing old fashioned stays, do you think? You know, a corset? How many whales died to bone it, do you think?"

"You enjoyed that, idjit," chortled Bobby. "I'm not sure what outraged her more, bein' jabbed for a blood sample, or you pointin' out that technically you're her aunt. What about Phlegmgob's blood?"

"He definitely tested vigorously positive with the holy water," Ian replied, "But, well, he doesn't seem as sick as the two upstairs."

"No?"

"Oh, he's got it, whatever it is," Ian continued, "But he doesn't seem to be suffering so badly. Of course, every time the poor little guy sneezes he shoots off Orgle's shoulder and slams into the nearest solid object, but it doesn't seem to be distressing him that much. Orgle's the one who's worried sick." He turned an amused expression on Bobby. "So, what are you going to do about industrial unrest Above and Below?"

"What I'd really like to know is when I got voted shop steward for the Angels' Collective and the Union of Demons, Fiends and Other Assorted Diabolical Entities," the old man grumbled. "I guess I'll call the boys in, have a word, see if we can't sort this out so as to avoid any unnecessary… consternation until we can fix Crowley's latest clusterfuck."

"I'll contact Dean," Fic said firmly, "You need serious praying, leave it to a professional. Although I'm sure you're a very talented amateur."

"And as the current resident unnatural abomination, I'll contact Sam," Ian added.

Bobby gave him a calculating look. "Whose throat were you plannin' to cut to make the long distance call?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't think this'll need blood," Ian chuckled, "The whole use of blood by demons, I think it's because they're demons. It's the context that's important. If you could give me a hand first, Felicity, that would help."

"Sure, what do you need me to do?"

"Go and get me the ugliest occult goblet in the house – then show me how to run the coffee machine, I need to fill it with latte."

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Druseriel gazed at the Michaelsword with the slightly stunned expression that angels were tending to wear in the presence of Michael's Chosen, prompted partly by the fact that they were face to face with the Righteous Man, and partly because the loud, thumping music was something they found somewhat disorienting.

Also, conversation with him could be decidedly… confusing.

"Inlet, Michaelsword?" repeated the dazed angel, peering dutifully at the wall of the room where the man pointed.

"Yeah, you gotta have an inlet, and an outlet, a drain," the Michaelsword indicated. "This would be a good spot for it. Although I suppose I could get somebody to angel mojo the water away. But it would be better if I didn't have to call somebody in every time I wanted to empty the tub. Ah, Am!" he turned to smile at the senior Herald, who appeared and gave him a wan smile. "I was just explaining the concept of the hot tub to Dru, here." He waved a piece of paper with a sketch on it under the angel's nose, "But I don't think he's really getting it. That's okay," he turned back to the more junior angel, "If it's outside of your job, it's not surprisin'."

"I am an Angel of the Lord, a Servant of Heaven," recited Druseriel, partly in reply, and partly as if reassuring himself, "I am a Scribe, Michaelsword, and truly have no knowledge of… um… inlets."

"Figures." Dean frowned in thought. "So, who exactly amongst the Host would be an Angel of the Lord, a Plumber of Heaven?"

Druseriel looked like a rabbit in a spotlight as Ameniel rushed to answer. "I don't think we have any _*hic*_ celestial plumbers, Michaelsword. 'S not much call for them, really."

Dean peered curiously at the angel. "Am, have you… have you been drinking?"

Ameniel fixed him with an expression that was clearly related to Castiel's Eye Sex Stare Of Doom, if slightly more cross-eyed. "Yes," he replied firmly.

"How much?"

"A lot."

"Awesome!" Dean beamed, "You really need to loosen up a bit. Now, I know that St Francis of Assisi sometimes helps the Guardian of Companions to look after the pets who are Waitin' for their owners, so there's a clear precedent for some human souls to help out sometimes, you see where I'm goin' with this…"

"Francis is a saint, Michaelsword," Ameniel interrupted, "Recognised for his virtuous conduct in life, his selflessness, his good works, his magnaninin… his magnanam… magneticism… his… he was really good…"

"Right, right, so, what I need to know, Am, is, who's the patron saint of plumbers?"

Ameniel considered the question. "Vincent of Valencia, Michaelsword."

"Great! Have somebody go ask him to come and help out here."

"But, but, he wasn' actually a plumber, y' know, he was a monk…"

"Yeah, well, saints do miracles, don't they, so he can improvise."

"But he wouldn' know anything about plumbing! He did theology, an' prayers, an', an', God stuff! Not inlets!"

"How do you know? Have you ever asked him? Look, just get him here, and we can at least ask…"

Dean's voice trailed off as they became aware of music. Not the pounding beat of what Dean was playing; that faded as the other sound grew louder.

It sounded classical, it sounded dignified and uplifting, it sounded as though the Choir of the Host had given up on singing and picked up musical instruments, it was sublime, it was celestial, it was drowning out Led Zeppelin…

"What the hell is that?" wondered Dean, "Hey! Who's messing with the stereo?"

A most unangelic goofy grin plastered itself across Ameniel's face. "Someone's prayin' _*hic*_ to you," he actually giggled, as he helped himself to a beer from the pile of ice.

"What?" Dean's eyes bugged, "Praying to me?"

"Yup," Ameniel nodded, twisting off the top and drinking deeply, "Praying to you. Well, at you, really. Someone reeeeeeeeal religious, if I'm any _*burrrrrrrrp*_ judge."

"Someone religious? Well, make them stop!" Dean demanded. "I don't do classical music!"

"Can't," Ameniel sounded just a touch smug as he listened to the music swell majestically and grow louder, "Hear those harmonics? This is being done by somebody who knows what they're _*hic*_ doing."

Dean clapped his hands over his ears. "Oh, fuck, turn it off!"

"No can do, Michaelsword," smiled Ameniel, finishing the beer he held, opening another one, and tucking a couple more away amongst his robes, "The only way to make it stop is to pay attention."

Dean glared at him. "What the fuck is this, Hogwarts?"

Ameniel stared at Dean. "I will bet you," he said carefully, "I will bet you another great big wonderful jar of beer that it's _*hic*_ a nun."

"A nun? Why the hell would a nun be…"

The music reached a crescendo, a bacon cheeseburger exploded, and in the sudden silence that followed, a voice emerged from the air and spake thusly:

 _Our brother who art in Heaven, Deano be thy name, back home now come, you boozing bum, to Earth, dinner's served by seven…_

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"It is not my place to tell you how to rule your realm, Great One," Nabiz the ifrit said doubtfully, "But I fear that Verael, long may her overdue stamps instil terror in the Damned, will not be immediately receptive to this iteration."

"Why not?" Sam demanded of Hell in general in exasperation. "Look, for a stationery requistion, all you need is the requestor's name, maybe an address or location, a contact would be useful, then a list of what they want, with quantities, and maybe product codes if there's a catalogue and you want to track usage, a signature for approval if it's necessary. A single page is all that's needed!"

"It is not just a question of what is needed, _effendi_ ," suggested Nabiz, "It is a question of what is considered… appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Sam's face drew into a scowl, which he thoughtfully did not aim at his assistant. "Considered appropriate by whom?"

"Well, by Verael, Majesty," shrugged the ifrit.

"Nobody, nobody, can convince me that all these, these, these requirements are appropriate!" snapped Sam, shuffling through the ream of paper. "Look at this one **. List any and all sexual partners you have had in this life and any previous incarnations – fill in Appendix 23 if you contracted a sexually transmitted infection during any of those encounters.** Utterly irrelevant if all you want is a highlighter and a glue stick. Or this: **Describe in detail how you would go about dismembering your most hated political/social/ethical/geometrical enemy.** What, am I gonna ask for paper clips so I can disembowel somebody with them? Or this: **Write an essay slandering, defaming and generally lambasting the last demon you spoke to (hint at depravity and perversion).** How would she like it if I wrote about OCD Fallen angels with delusions of grandeur and passive-aggressive tendencies that manifest as ludicrous paperwork requirements, huh? Exactly why is it that Verael is the one who gets to decide what is 'appropriate'?"

"She is the one with the key to the stationery cupboard," Nabiz pointed out practically, "And possession is nine tenths of the law. So to speak."

Sam groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "All I want is a pen that works, and a pad of paper that doesn't tear when you do so much as look at it, and a battery for the mouse," he sounded perilously close to whining.

"The mouse does not actually need a battery to run it," Nabiz told him.

"I know," Sam snapped, "But the next time the little bastard gets into my lunch, I'm gonna shove a battery up its ass!" He glared at the diabolical rodent as it crouched on its pad; it glared right back. "I mean it! Don't you dare try to tell me they were caraway seeds, I know mouse crap when I see it, you shit in my salad again and I'll give you a resetting you won't ever forget!"

The mouse let out a series of squeaks that sounded like smug chuckling, and poked its tongue out at him.

"Right, that's it," he announced, standing up, a terrifying Bitchface gracing his features. "Hold the fort, Nabiz, I'm going to the library."

"Er, you have not completed the form, sire," the ifrit reminded him, "The section where you are required to draw a pornographic image of a world leader of your choice, you have not…"

"I'm not going to fill in the form," Sam growled – the spot on the wall in his line of sight began to smoke – "I'm not taking the form. I am going to the Library, to get a pen, a pad, and a battery. A pointy one, for preference."

Nabiz's eyes widened. "But… but… my lord, Verael is the Librarian, she is not just a demon, my liege, she is… Fallen…"

"I – don't – care," Sam ground out between clenched teeth, "I am King of Hell. I want a pen. I will go, and get one."

"But… how?" cried Nabiz, falling to his knees.

Sam gave him a devious smile. "By stealth, cunning, and underhandedly treacherous ambush tactics," he replied. "I shall approach Verael, greet her respectfully, and then… ask politely."

Nabiz let out a small noise of awe.

"So, if anybody comes looking for me, tell 'em I'm, I don't know, make something up, tell 'em I'm eating small fluffy animals and molesting choir boys. Or the other way around, whatever, I'll be…"

His voice trailed off as his eye was caught by the cup of what was laughingly referred to as 'coffee' in Hell. As he watched, it began to swirl, and glow. He sat down again, and stared into the cheap plastic cup.

"What the fuck?" His face glowered in a terrifying pout. "Is somebody screwing with the pathetic excuse for coffee in this place? _Seriously?_ Fuck, this is the last straw! No pens, no computers, the coffee is shit, and now somebody is screwing with that? Aaaaaargh! Get me a demon, any demon, I really, really, really need to punch something right now…"

"No, _effendi_ , it is not demonic interference," Nabiz assured him, "It is a call. A long distance call." He paused. "You should answer it," he intoned, "Nobody makes a long distance call like that unless it's important."

Sam sighed. Stationery forms, malevolent computer mice, incomprehensible engineers, and communication via coffee. If nothing else, the experience was inspiring him to be a virtuous person, because Hell wasn't even a nice place to visit, let alone ending up living there…

With a resigned expression he picked up the cup. "Er, hello?"

"Your Majesty?" a brisk voice addressed him. "I have a collect call for you, from the physical plane, the Earthly realm, will you accept the charges?"

"Sure, why not," he sighed, "Put 'em through, and put it on the tab. Oh, and just to warn you, if you break in to warn me that I'm running out of minutes, I will send you to the Library."

With a frightened squeak, the demonic exchange operator connected the call.

* * *

I think I've filled in that form before. At least, I've written/drawn some of that information on a form before submitting it, not sure what the admin drones at the other end of the process thought about that. (My husband once filled in an application for a debt consolidation load by writing the following: 'The nasty *insert company name* oogy boogy monster is bleeding me dry, halp halp halp!') Give it a try; the next time you have to fill in a form, draw a pornoriffic picture of your favourite world leader on the back. Or on the cover sheet, wherever.

Meanwhile, send Florence the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Wonderfully Amusing Karma Coming Back To Smite The People You Can't Stand In The Workplace Of Life!


	18. Chapter 18

For anyone who might be a more recent Denizen, Lurker, Visitor or Casual Dropper-In to the Jimiverse, a word about imps.

They are little, hairy, sentient creatures that inhabit – or, if you were to ask Crowley, infest – Hell. They are small, small enough to perch comfortably on a shoulder, or travel happily in a handbag. In appearance, they are like a mixture of a particularly ugly Chihuahua and the Yattering (for Stephen King fans) and Salacious B. Crumb (for Star Wars fans). Unlike any of these creatures, the imps of Hell are happy, friendly, cheerful little critters who really don't have any vicious tendencies at all – how such critters came to inhabit Hell is anybody's guess. A favourite author of mine, a man in a natty hat, would no doubt have theorised that it was because of quantum. They understand language, although they do not themselves speak; however, they are able to communicate with astonishing articulation via their chitterings, facial expressions and eloquent hand gestures. Farting will be a part of the greeting when an imp greets somebody it knows, or wishes to befriend.

Traditionally, they were thought of as pests, or vermin; demons would regularly spray for imps. However, Orgle the Fiend, Crowley's indispensable PA, adopted Phlegmgob the imp as a pet a long time ago, and is devoted to him. During the events of 'In A Flap', when Orgle temporarily had to act as Monarch of Hell (due to Crowley catching a nasty dose of angel), he decided to do something about imps' public image, and engaged a team of PR execs, ad writers and spin doctors to make the inhabitants of Hell like imps. (This was not difficult, since Hell is well supplied with PR execs, ad writers and spin doctors, as those people make a profession out of breaking one of the Commandments, since it is their job to bear false witness.) Phlegmgob was the first imp to get a makeover, and the campaign was a resounding success, so that imps are now regarded as highly desirable pets, and infernal imp primping services now abound. There are imp shows in Hell, where Hierarchy ladies vie to produce the best bred imps (ones with really good pedigrees hardly smell at all), and those who are more concerned with substance than style enter their imps in farting competitions, where mere appearance is irrelevant and it's what the creature can do that counts.

Phlegmgob has been acknowledged as an imp with impeccable bloodlines, but Orgle doesn't show him, because he thinks that assessing imps just on their appearance is shallow, and he likes Phlegmgob for himself, not what he might look like when he has a bath and has been dunked in a bucket of deodoriser. However, the little guy is a champion farter – he has won a trophy that's bigger than he is, and he often likes to sleep in it.

Oh, and photocopiers (along with many other electronic devices) fail when they are most needed because they are equipped with a stress detection chip – if your desperation triggers the detector, it shuts down.

As to the best pastry accompaniment to a cup of tea, the answer is: whatever you like best. I'm partial to crostoli (angel wings). Or anything made with choux pastry. Or TimTams, natch. Or, that iconic Australian treat, Iced Vovos. You don't know what an Iced Vovo is? It is to Australia what lutefisk is to Norway, what surstromming is to Sweden, what MacDonalds is to Murca. When introducing visitors to the national cuisine, it's what you offer to your foreign guests right after you get them to taste Vegemite, in order to reassure them that you were not actually trying to poison them.

There, that should've answered five questions for any Pythonphiles out there.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

"What the fuck?" yapped Dean the moment he spotted his brother in Bobby's living room.

Sam tried almost successfully to suppress a snigger, raising a clenched fist to his chest. "Ave, Caesar," he intoned dramatically with his best classical pronunciation.

"Where the hell have you been, Sam, Planet of the Pimps?"

"Says the guy wearing a tunic," chuckled Sam, "And hitching at his…hey, bro, are you… are you wearing an actual subligaculum?"

"It's part of the uniform, all right?" Dean snapped, trying to hitch as surreptitiously as possible.

"No, that's really authentic, hey, how does it work, is it a single piece of fabric, or is like the leather shorts they excavated at…"

"Bobby!" yelled Dean, pulling his hemline down, "Bobby, Sam is trying to look up my tunic!"

"No I'm not!"

"Anyway, what the fuck are you doin' looking like an extra from Starsky and Hutch?"

"It's the uniform – trust me, it could've been worse."

"Worse? You look like Huggy Bear after a skin bleaching session gone wrong, and you say it could've been worse?"

"Just don't ask about the leather pants."

"Whoa, leather pants, dude?"

"I said don't ask!"

"God's tits, I thought we were tryin' to stop Them Up There and Them Down There from startin' a war," complained Bobby as he followed the sounds of their voices, "What are you two idjits… oh." He looked both Winchesters up and down.

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's the uniform, okay? Apparently, the Ruler of Hell has to make an effort to look the part." His eyes slid to his brother. "Of course, what part of Dean Heaven is supposed to be looking at – the sixties called, they want their hemline back."

"Bitch," scowled Dean, "These boots have actual hobnails in 'em, so don't provoke me to kick your ass." He turned to head for the stairs.

"Where are you going?" asked Sam.

"I gotta check on Cas," Dean replied over his shoulder. "Whatever we're back here for, don't start without me, Tony Manero."

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Sister Fic was sitting with Crowley when Dean came into the room.

"Crowley, is something wrong? Only you've been, well, wiggling again."

"No, no, nothing at all, Sister, I assure you."

"You would tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you? Are you sure there isn't something I should know about? I was a doctor, you know."

"No no no, it's just a bit of numb bum syndrome, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my…"

"Did you pray at me?" Dean demanded of his sister without preamble. "You did! It was you prayin' at me!"

"Hello Dean, how good to see you again too, little brother," Felicity grinned at him.

"I think I met your husband. Well, when I say 'met', He was a smartass in my direction, then He disappeared…"

"The two of you should get on well, then," replied Fic equably. "Is Sam back too?"

"Yeah, Liberace is downstairs," Dean told her.

"Dressed as interestingly as you?" rasped Crowley, a smirk on his face, "Or did you just decide to stop in to RomCon on the way home? Taken a part as an extra in A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum, perhaps?"

"Shut up, you," scowled Dean, indicating his scabbard, "I got a flaming sword, here."

"Right now, that sword isn't the only thing about you that's flaming, dear boy."

"Hello, Dean," wheezed Castiel from the other bed, "Do not allow Crowley's puerile teasing to provoke you; you are the Michaelsword, and it is beneath you."

"What is beneath him is actually quite interesting, really, Winchester, was that a glimpse of subligaculum beneath your tunic?"

"Shut up." Carefully keeping his knees together, Dean sat on the edge of the angel's bed. "How you holdin' up, Cas?"

Castiel offered him a wan, exhausted smile. "I am no worse," he offered, "Bobby and Sister Felicity and Doctor Gregson are unceasing in their efforts to find a diagnosis and cure, and are providing compassionate care." He offered what could only be described as a hopeful expression. "I believe that I am coming to anticipate with some gratitude the tomato rice soup you first prepared for me."

"I'll get you some right away," Dean promised, standing up. "You just lie there, and think healing thoughts."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel managed a small smile again, then closed his eyes.

"I notice that Maximus here isn't offering to bring _me_ any nourishing and restorative soup," snuffled Crowley resentfully.

"I'll do that," Fic told him, "Or would you like an egg with toast soldiers?"

"Oh, Sister, if I had a heart, you would know your way straight to it." He gave her a poignant look. "And how is the great work coming along? The search for a cure?"

She gave him a worried but brave smile. "We are doing our best," she told him gently, "But we are only humans – well, we were born humans. I pray for miracles, Crowley, I can't actually work them." She stood up. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with your…"

"Absolutely nothing at all, dear Sister, my nether regions are in A1 condition, okey-dokey and tickety-boo."

As the Winchesters left the room, Castiel spoke again.

"As we are both right now apparently prey to disease and infection, it would really be prudent to tell Sister Felicity about the furuncules on your…"

"No it wouldn't!"

"In this situation, it may be that a simple course of antibiotics will treat your…"

"No it wouldn't!"

"Such lesions, if left untended, can become serious health problems, and may lead to localised inflammation and extensive tissue damage to your…"

"Will – you – shut – up – about – my – arse!"

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"Ohhhhh, that's so good," Sam hummed contentedly over a cup of coffee.

"Dude, you sound like the track from a porn film," opined Dean. "Not that I'm sayin' it's a bad thing, I just find it sad that it's a cup of girly frothy shit causing you to make that noise, and not a willing and frisky woman."

"Jerk." Sam sighed and put down the cup, turning back to his dinner. "So, how exactly is the diagnostic research going, you and Ian found anything yet?" He paused. "Where is the good doctor, anyway?"

"It's obvious, Sam," scoffed Dean, "He aint here, because he don't need to eat dinner like normal people, he'll be at the blood bank, waitin' for a handout with all the other destitute abominations…"

"Actually, I've been in the panic room, examining Phlegmgob the imp," said a voice right behind him, making him jump in his seat. "Right now, I'm more concerned about Orgle – the big guy is going to worry himself into a heart attack. I can only hope that he has more than one."

"Sonofabitch!" yelped Dean, turning to glare at Ian. "What the fuck are you doin' sneaking up on people like that?"

"I've wondered if it's an evolutionary thing," the undead doctor mused, "A selection pressure. A vampire who can sneak up on his prey is more likely to survive, and therefore more likely to leave more, well, progeny, I suppose, presumably passing on the trait of sneakiness…"

"I aint your prey, bloodsucker," Dean scowled, "You even think about biting me, and I'll have your head off your shoulders so fast you won't have time to blink, damn what Ronnie will do…"

"If we could just leave the threats of decapitation for a moment," sighed Bobby, "Doc, Sam was just askin' how your diagnostic work was going."

"Slowly, and frustratingly," sighed Ian, pouring himself a coffee and adding a generous slosh from a flask. "We're sure it's something diabolical in origin. The blood test is quite spectacular. Pity we can't publish, it would certainly liven up the letters page of the _Lancet_."

"And His Royal Asshatness upstairs knows more than he is lettin' on," growled Bobby.

"But I have a cunning plan to tackle that," Fic smiled. "I think we give him one more day to feel like absolute crap, then begin Operation Desperation."

"So, we're acting CEOs for a while longer," Dean observed glumly.

"Actually, that's why we called you back," Bobby began, "To talk about your, uh, management."

Dean paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Our management? What about it?"

"Well, we've had, I dunno if you can call a single person a delegation, but we've had some, let's call it 360-degree feedback…"

He filled them in on the conversations he'd had with the petitioners from Above and Below.

"That would be just like that cow Ghazoria," humphed Sam, pulling a Bitchface™ that would've seared any demon present to a cinder, "Seriously, these assholes have no idea about the workload involved in tryin' to keep Hell running!"

"Are you sure it wasn't just the beer talkin'?" asked Dean, "I mean, I think Am needs to loosen up, yeah, but I don't think he can really hold it that well."

"There has to be some sort of systematic approach to managing the place – the electronics infrastructure is so ancient it's a miracle the IDIOTs can get it to work at all."

"I had to do something about the Choir, I mean, how much hallowing does one god need? Over and over and over, you think I'm bad with the same tapes on rotation, these guys seriously need to expand their set list."

"That reminds me, while I'm here, I need to get a pen and a pad, and a battery. And some cheese. Laced with rat poison."

"Did you know that there is nobody in charge of beer in Heaven? Nobody in charge of beer, and nobody in charge of plumbing, oh, sing until your brain is ready to crawl out of your ears just to get away, yeah, they can do that, but ask for a cold one or a hot water inlet and they look at you the way a fish would if you asked it for a bicycle…"

"And don't get me started on the fiasco that is the Red Energy system, if you're going to install a new technology, you have to be prepared to put in the resources to maintain it, and train the people to do the maintenance, and train somebody to be a translator for the people doing the maintenance…"

"And why can't I go visiting, huh? I mean, what's the point if I can't go visiting? Do you know how awesome a jam session we could get together, if we got Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and Cliff Burton and Keith Moon and Randy Rhoads and Bon Scott and Joey Ramone and Stevie Ray Vaughan and Ronnie James Dio and…"

"It sounds like there might be a bit of a problem with your management styles, as compared to the incumbents," Bobby cut into the litany of counter-complaint. "The way you two are runnin' things, it's turned out to be quite different to the way Feathers and Fartface do business."

"Of course," noted Sam, "I'm not an immoral, scheming, murderous, self-serving asshole who enjoys shredding demons for the purpose of keeping the others guessing, I'm just trying to keep the place running."

"And I aint no angel," Dean acknowledged, "And given that they don't have beer, I'm pretty damned sure I never wanna be one." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe I should do something about that while I'm there, they'll thank me for it, I mean, look at Am – I know I'm not God, but surely I could retrain a couple of the younger ones, you know, my name is Booziel, I am an Angel of the Lord, a Brewer of Heaven…"

"The point I'm makin' here," Bobby cut him off, "Is that you are provoking exactly the sort of, uh, consternation that we were hopin' to avoid by having you two idjits step in."

"Well, pardon me for not be demonic enough," Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "What am I supposed to do, stab a few more of 'em? Is there some quota I should be aiming for? Do I get a bonus if I exceed my target?"

"I refuse to apologise for introducing anyone to beer," Dean stated firmly, "It probably counts as a Good Work, in the grand scheme of things."

"If there's somebody else who can do this job, I'm happy to hand it over," Sam declared emphatically.

"Ditto," Dean echoed his brother's sentiments.

"That, unfortunately, is not an option," sighed Bobby, "There really are no other suitable candidates for sittin' in the bosses' chairs while they're out of action. So, you two are gonna have to make some effort to change the way you're runnin' your respective realms…"

Dean and Sam both began simultaneous litanies of protest and complaint, talking over each other until their sister Fic raised her voice. "SHADDAP!" She stabbed a potato as they snapped into silence. "Bobby, I think there might, in fact, be a solution to this problem that won't require drastic alteration of management styles."

"Well, if you got an idea, let's hear it," Bobby prompted, "Though I got no idea who else we could rope in to this shitfest."

She regarded the potato thoughtfully. "I'm not proposing that we employ anybody else," she said, "What I am suggesting is a… redeployment."

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Ameniel was sitting in the beautifully appointed room. He felt like crying. Instead, he opened another beer.

"It seemed like such a good idea at the time, given the circumstances," he moaned, then drank deeply.

"Ah, I know that one," Druseriel offered him a small encouraging smile, "Yes, 'It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time', that is The Flasher's Defence."

"Close, little sister, it is The Streaker's Defence," Ameniel tried to smile. "Good intentions. We know what they pave the way to. I had such high hopes for this arrangement, I mean, he is Michael's Chosen, I don't understand how it all went so, so, so wrong…" he took another drink. "I don't know what to do, I am a Herald, I'm not a general, I'm not a leader, I'm just a messenger…"

There was a tinkle of melodic chimes in the air, and a sense of presence. Ameniel stared at the beer in his hand, wondering if it was starting to affect him, because he was suddenly feeling as if he was standing quite close to somebody he had not seen for a very long time.

"Er, hello?"

He turned to see the tall man smiling uncertainly; somehow, despite his height, he managed to give the impression that he was peeking up at the angels through his hair. "Uh, hi, I'm looking for Ameniel." He looked around the room, and an expression of disapproval formed on his face. "And, uh, I think there is supposed to be an office?"

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"Are you sure that will work?" Duke Rhangaar sounded doubtful, looking around the Throne Room to ensure that they were not being overheard by more than the usual contingent of spies, plants, moles and turncoats. "Not that I care if you get yourself spontaneously combusted, but if you pull this off, I want to be in a position that leaves me most likely able to exploit your success and usurp your achievement."

"It's all to do with the notifications," Duke Ganthery gestured for a cringing lackey to step forward, "On these iThingies. I've had one of the IDIOTs mock up a custom status for me – see? Usually, you can choose from Free, Tentative, Busy, Out Of Office, None Of Your Damned Business, Somewhere More Pleasant Than Where You Are, Interrupt Me And You Will Die, Fornicating, Planning Your Death, Undertaking Depravity, Biting The Heads Off Baby Otters. I've had them add this one."

Duke Rhangaar craned his neck to read the screen. "Being Deposed And Slaughtered Like A Sacrificial Goat To Be Replaced By A More Deserving Individual," he read.

"Now, His Majesty's calendar is shared access, so, I shall have one of the IDIOTs make an appointment in his calendar, then…"

There was a noise like the three-note air horn of a large truck, making all the demons jump.

"What in the name of Lucifer's sweaty swingers was that?!" barked Rhangaar.

"Nothin' to worry about, asshole," drawled a voice behind him. "Probably."

He whipped around to see that an individual was seated on the Red Throne. His lip curled as he took in the scruffy appearance and the careless slouched posture. He was nonchalantly cleaning his nails with an ornate knife. He paused, lifted his face, and smiled at the Duke.

Several demon ladies in the immediate vicinity swooned.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Ganthery.

"Oh, nobody special," the man shrugged, "Crowley says I'm a pretty thug, if that helps. I prefer 'handsome sonofabitch', but hey, I aint gonna quibble over details of language."

The ifrit Nabiz appeared discreetly beside the Throne, and salaamed respectfully. "I am glad to see that you have arrived safely, Your Majesty," he intoned.

Rhangaar did a double take. "Your… are you telling me, that… that… individual intends to lay claim to the Red Throne?"

"I'm sittin' on it," shrugged the man, "I'd say my claim is well and truly laid." He paused. "Hey, I like the way that came out, because if I lay anythin', it's always gonna end up well and truly laid…"

"Bow before His Majesty," Nabiz bellowed at the milling crowd of demons, "Humble yourselves before The Ruler of Hell, The General of The Adversary, The Chosen of The Great Enemy, The Sword of Michael, now come to claim the Red Throne and take his place as Lord of The Domain Below…"

"Naz, what the fuck are you doin'?" the complaint cut into the announcement.

"I must announce you, _effendi_ ," the ifrit told him, "I must instruct the demons as to your function, your position, your importance."

"Oh, I can do that, with a lot less shouting," grinned Hell's new overlord.

Moving like a snake, he was off the ornate chair of office, across the floor and sinking his knife into Rhangaar. With an astonished squeak, the demon lord collapsed, and disintegrated.

His smile was an invitation to mayhem, a warning of certain death. Another demon lady fainted. "I'm the new boss, I'm in charge, and I'm more important than any of you." He flipped the knife carelessly. "And I'll cheerfully gut anybody who crosses me, annoys me, or gets in my way. Now, Naz, there was mention of beer…"

* * *

The problem Dean is having is that, unlike me, he never had formal lessons in Keeping One's Knees Together Whilst Wearing A Skirted Garment. It's true – when I started secondary school, all the girls who'd never worn uniforms before had a lecture on how to sit and stand and move whilst wearing a dress or skirt. It was referred to as 'maintenance of modesty'. If you were sitting at your desk and forgot to keep your knees together, the teacher would snap 'Maintain your modesty!' at you. I kid you not. It's probably why I haven't worn a skirt since I left school, I was thoroughly traumatised.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Whoa, check these out! Whaddya think, Naz?"

"Indeed, _effendi_ , you cut a most… striking figure. Also, I believe the ladies of Hell would be most… appreciative of this selection."

"Well, it takes a special type of guy to carry off leather pants shirtless and not look like a complete douchebag."

"Shall I fetch the red body paint and the horns, sire?"

"Nah, don't think I could wear these all day. Chafing, you know. You only put on a pair of pants like this if you know a frisky lady is gonna be gettin' you out of 'em again in the not too distant future. I think I'll just stick with what I was wearing when I got here."

"Traditionally, it is expected that the Ruler of Hell will adopt an appearance that will be suitably diabolical, menacing and intimidating, my lord."

"Oh, I can do menacing, all I gotta do is smile."

"I did notice that a number of the ladies were in fact induced to swoon, my liege."

"That's okay, I can kick 'em while they're down. Look, if anybody asks, tell 'em I've gone for the Randall Flagg look. From 'The Stand', I mean, not that other stuff, it's a great story, although I suggest you don't read it if you have a cold."

"Ah, now that you draw my attention to that particular idiom, I believe that there may be some accessories here to accompany it, O Denim-Clad One."

"Yeah?"

"Let me see, yes, here we are, there is a pair of cowboy boots…"

"Cowboy boots? Awesome! Hand 'em over, fiery dude!"

"…And a nuclear warhead."

"Uh, maybe not."

"It is on a motorised trolley, for your transportational convenience, Great One."

"It's not the transportational convenience that concerns me, Naz, it's the radiation poisoning."

"Oh, you are completely safe, _effendi_ , this is Hell – ionizing radiation particles runs home crying to their atomic progenitors, here."

"Really?"

"Had you a detector, you would discover that there are absolutely no Geigers to be counted."

"Well, it's not gonna be very intimidating under those circumstances, is it? I mean, hey, look at the size of my warhead, oh, by the way, it's completely harmless to you… hang on, maybe I can use it after all… okay, Naz, I'll wear the boots, bring the nuke. Park it in the Throne Room. Then casually hint that I might have made some slight moderations to the payload."

"May I ask what sort of moderations, O Fearsome Son of the Highway?"

"Tell 'em I filled it with holy water."

"Your approach to ruling is a soothing balm to the wretched soul of this lowly one, my king. I beg a boon, a favour of you; may I linger to watch the consternation spread throughout the Hierarchy?"

"Naz, I don't just want you to watch, I want pictures."

"Gladly shall I perform this task… although there is still the matter of your title."

"My title?"

"Indeed, Devious One, as King of Hell, you must have a title. You were not foretold as the Boy King, however, having surpassed the one called Alistair, you would be entitled to be addressed as Rackmaster…"

"No, I aint gonna dirty my hands on these assholes – I think fucking with their heads will be a lot more fun."

"An alternative would be Dominican, Lord of the Hounds, since the Infernal Pack seems to be so fond of you, much to the consternation of the Hierarchy, which reminds me, I shall attend to that damp smouldering patch on the carpet forthwith, if not sooner…"

"Naz, let's keep this simple. They can just call me… The Boss."

"I like this, Boss."

"I thought you might."

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"This is amazing, I had no idea that armour could be so, well, so wearable, I mean, I guess it has to be, since it was intended for fighting. And the tunic is actually quite practical. Kind of comfortable, if I'm honest. I don't know what Dean was complaining about, he must not have been tying it properly."

"You look very well in it _…*sniff*…"_

"Er, is something wrong, Sephariel?"

"No, no, _sniff_ , there is nothing wrong, it's just, it's just, it's just that it has been so long since this armour was used, and I had resigned myself never to seeing it worn aga-a-a-a-a-in…"

"Oh, no, please don't cry, Ameniel, pass me that, here, blow… better?"

"Yes, thank you. _*sniff*_ My apologies."

"Don't apologise – I know what it's like to miss your big brother, even if you think he's a complete jerk and sometimes you just want to punch him, when he's not there, you feel it."

"Yes, that is exactly how it is. It is mysterious to me as to how I can be so appalled by Lucifer's conduct, and yet I miss him."

"You can choose your friends, but not your relatives – it's just how it works. Angels have more in common with humans than some of them care to admit."

"This is a most profound insight into fraternal relations."

"Don't try to overthink it, is my advice – you'll just get a headache. Ah, Ameniel, how are we going with the move?"

"All the files have been transferred back to the office."

"Excellent, nobody could possibly think in a room with pounding music and the stench of bacon cheeseburgers permeating the place. Oh, did you ask the Choir to stop hallowing my brother and go back to their usual song?"

"It is already done, and has prompted a certain amount of… the only word that comes to mind is 'relief' amongst the Host."

"Excellent. What about the stationery arrangements for the office?"

"All is as you directed – a place for everything, and everything in its place. I must confess, I found the stocking of the desk with stationery items to be strangely… gratifying. Those items, the ones called 'highlighters'…"

"Stationery porn, Ameniel, don't ever be ashamed. It's not immoral, it's not illegal, and it doesn't break any Commandments. Provided you get your own, and don't covet anybody else's, I suppose. So, are we done here?"

"I believe so… er…"

"Er?"

"There is the question of address."

Address? What, PO Box 1, Heaven? I thought all prayers went through Reception, past Danael's Red Pen of Fury."

"No, no, the matter of how we are to address you. You are not… how do I put this politely?... you are not exactly…"

"I was the Chosen of Lucifer, who was Cast Out for rebellion against God and made himself abominable in your Father's eyes, I'm the Boy King, the Tainted Abomination."

"Well, yes. And 'Your Abominableness' really is not respectful."

"You could try calling me Sam, since it's my name."

"Yes, yes, it is, but…"

"But?"

"Well, using your name, it's not very… deferential or inspirational."

Ameniel, I am not here to be deferred to or to inspire anybody, I'm just here to temp for Castiel until he gets back. And I am _not_ the Morningstar, I was just designated as his vessel. I'm more like a visiting professor than a general."

"But you _must_ have a _title_! It's how things are done!"

"Well, how do you refer to Castiel, in the third person, when you talk about him in his role of what my brother calls Sheriff of Heaven?"

"There is a word in Enochian that means the leader of a group or congregation, and has overtones of intellectual leadership and oversight rather than martial command."

"Right! Great! Well, pick a simile I can pronounce, in a human language, and we'll use that."

"Very well. I shall go now to inform the Host that they should congregate for a brief address from The Dean."

"The…?... oh, God…"

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Prayers are funny things. Funny peculiar, rather than funny ha-ha (although televangelists who tearfully pray for their congregations to send them more money so they can continue to fund a lavishly hypocritical lifestyle are definitely laughable). Nobody knows if or how they work – sometimes a devout person will pray for something modest and selfless and go unanswered, whereas a submarine Christian (the designation for those who only surface in times of crisis) may revert to praying for a miracle, and seemingly have that desperate request granted.

Does The Almighty hear them all, or just some? Does He pick and choose which ones He will or will not answer according to some scheme unknown and unknowable to humans, or does He throw a dice, spin a wheel, throw darts at a map? Or is the occasional miracle recovery, lottery win or bigger swimming pool just part of the random motion of the universe?

Maybe it's because of quantum.

So, nobody knows if or how prayers work. It's one of life's little mysteries. Like life on distant planets on the other side of Creation, the nature of space-time and matter in the first nanoseconds after the Big Bang, the race memory of trees, the thoughts of a sentient star, and what the fuck those scene kids who dress like badlly tie-dyed second-hand dishmops are thinking, it's a question that humanity can barely comprehend, let alone expect to answer comprehensively any time soon.

However, if nobody understands the _if_ or the _how_ , a few, a very few, individuals have a working idea of the _what_ …

Dean was a lot closer to a crude but humanly understandable analogy when he first referred to the method of communication between members of the Host as Angel Radio, because when a multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent wishes to convey information to another, it is a matter of generating a waveform encoding that information in a format that can propagate through space-time-Creation to be detected and decoded by another. Just like any other communications, the speech of humans, the long-distance ground-drumming of elephants, the electrical quantum shifting of carbon electrons in methane between methane-breathing Froodians on Planet Frood, communication between angels needs two things: a transmission, and a receiver.

Angels might be the unique in being the only beings in which every member has an in-depth understanding of the _how_ , due to their non-mortal celestial nature. Humans don't need that: to communicate, you don't need to know about the ossicles (malleus, incus, stapes) or the cochlea or hair cells or impedance matching or neurotransmission or spatiotemporal pattern conversion or the larynx or vocal phonation in the glottis or vocal cords or Broca's area of the brain. That's the _how_. A number of scholarly types know about those things, but most of us don't, because we generally learn very early to use your mouth to talk, and your ears to listen. The _how_ is not important, so long as you can use the _what_.

Which brings us to nuns.

Okay, in a completely roundabout non-sequitur utterly inapropos way, but go with me on this one.

Nuns are women who, traditionally, devoted their lives to the service of God. What a 'life devoted to the service of God' does mean, or should mean, is something that ecclesiastical types, scholars and the odd crackpot have been banging on about pretty much since God was invented, but there will be general consensus that part of the whole nunning gig, from a cloistered silent order to the most worldly and practical modern congregation, involves prayer. Quite a lot of it, really. The more, the better.

Leave aside the question of what nuns pray for – or what nuns should pray for. It's another one of those questions that could provoke anything from very interesting discussion after Mass to an all-out war, so we won't examine it too closely. (Sister Fic could tell you some things that she has been specifically instructed NOT to pray for, though, for example, a new microwave oven – or at least one that was not clearly possessed – chocolate cake for afternoon tea, and a flat tyre for the bastard who just zipped across two lanes of traffic to turn right and nearly made me crash.) The point is, many orders will instruct their postulants that the ideal, the epitome, the acme, for which a good nun should strive is a constant communion with God, what St Paul referred to as 'prayer without ceasing'. Like any example of theoretical perfection, it's held up as a goal, a target, something to aim for, in the knowledge that an imperfect human grasping after the perfection of God will rarely succeed, but it is the journey that is important rather than the destination, grasshopper. You really do get a prize just for participating, even if you don't win. It's very modern, in that respect.

Yeah, the poverty and chastity and obedience things are kind of important, too, but it's all a means to an end, the constant communion with God. Constant transmission, with the receiver being monitored at all times.

A transmitter, and a receiver.

The receiver bit is easy. Mostly, people who think they've been talking to God have been talking to themselves, but He is in fact quite capable of making Himself understood if He feels like it.

The transmitter bit is obvious, too, you just put your hands together and pray.

Which of course raises the question of how a nun's praying could have any more chance of cutting through the equivalent of the electronic eather, to be detected by a celestial being. Is it because they are more holy? More selfless? That they generate a signal with a larger amplitude?

It's a lot more simple than that, but like I said, very few people ever figure it out. Including nuns themselves.

But some of them do. (Fortunately, being nuns, they know not to abuse that knowledge. As Granny Weatherwax once observed, knowing how to do something requires cleverness, but knowing when not to do it takes real wisdom and serious power.)

Some people who are not nuns do, too. Which is why Bobby didn't bat an eyelid when he saw Sister Fic fetch a formal part of her religious attire that very few nuns wear very often any more, except for formal or special occasions.

Of course, it was easier to spot in days gone by. Have you ever looked at photos of nuns, especially those of bygone ages, before Vatican II, and marvelled at the outfits they wear? Why is it that women who profess qualities like humility and modesty wear such plain and unprepossessing garments, yet on their heads, would wear wimples and cornettes that are not just extravagantly ornate, but look like feats of modern engineering that would be received with straight faces at the most ridiculously pretentious fashion show?

Seriously, haven't you ever looked at one of those pictures and thought to yourself, that must be so uncomfortable, she looks like she's wearing a satellite dish…

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Castiel was resting with his eyes closed when, for want of a better analogy, he heard his call sign on Angel Radio. The signal was relatively weak, so he knew it was not one of his siblings. He remained still, with no outward indication that he was doing anything except resting. It was not what we would recognise as a 'conversation', but it was a means to the same end.

 _this is Virgin On The Ridiculous calling Holy FWEEEEEEP_ _ **Tax Accountant, Virgin O…**_ _diculous calling Holy Ta… ountant, are you FWEEEEEEP receiving, plea.. cknowledge, over_

 _this is Holy Tax Accountant, receiving you Virgin On The Ridiculous, but your signal is unstable, over_

 _Holy Tax Accountant can you_ _ **FWEEEEEEP**_ _mod…late…_ _ **your end**_ _, over_

 _Virgin On The Ridiculous, you're breaking up – interference from Mass at St Helena's, I think, switching frequencies, stand by stand by_

 _FWEEEEEEEEEP_

 _Virgin On The Ridiculous can you stabilise your amplitude, over_

 _Holy_ _ **Tax Ac**_ _countant,_ _ **stand b**_ _y… is that better, over_

 _Virgin On The Ridiculous, I think we have a working connection. Hello Felicity._

 _Hey Castiel, sorry for the call on Radio Religion, but I need to talk to you without Crowley hearing any of it._

 _Understood._

 _Okay, here's the thing, we are pretty damned sure that whatever is making you both sick originated in Hell, and we're also damned sure that Crowley knows more about this than he's letting on._

 _Do you believe that he had an intentional hand in developing this illness?_

 _Bobby is willing to bet his hat on it, so that's a resounding 'yes'. The thing is, we really can't make any more progress on a cure without more information. Bobby is in favour of trying to beat some answers out of him, but realises that asking His Demonic Majesty point blank will just result in him lying his head off, and disappearing. He thinks like a cop: admit nothing, deny everything, make counter accusations._

 _I see your dilemma. Should I speak to him, appeal to his sense of self-preservation, if nothing else?_

 _If I thought it would work, I would ask you to, but if he did this to you on purpose, he will absolutely not admit it to you. Well, not at the moment, anyway._

 _What do you propose?_

 _Oh, I'm going to ask him myself._

 _Will than not be unproductive?_

 _Not if I take steps to put him in the right frame of mind…_

* * *

Oh dear. Poor Sam. Some are born to Deanness, others have it thrust upon them. Let's home the poor boy doesn't have to see his big bro wearing leather pants.


	20. Chapter 20

It's taken a couple of days extra to write this chapter, because I went to see Iron Maiden, and it's taken me two days to recover from the late night out. Oh, I remember the first time I saw them live, I got home after midnight, went out with friends, then went home to change my socks and eat breakfast then headed in to uni. For two hours, among my people, I felt like I was twenty again - and for the last two days, I've been feeling every year of my actual age. Le sigh. This getting older thing sucks.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

"I' weere the tarmlarns imporsed, Boss," the portly demon told Dean over a beer – Dean had rather enjoyed sticking his knife into several young she-demons who tried to slink into his office, but he'd had the sense to let them put the beer down first. "I' weere doon larrrrgeley on the roon, ye see, tha' schemin' bawbag Crrrrooley had tae git 'er oop an' rooning aforrre yon Heerarchy tooore him aparrrrrt…"

Dean stared up at Red Energy Reactor Number One, nicknamed Morag after a girl that Snotty had once apparently dallied with when he was a human (because, if he understood the demon's impenetrable accent, like the girl, it was big and round and tended to blow up with no apparent provocation in which case the entire neighbourhood would hear it). The demons had the panelling off, and the interior workings of the reactor were visible, coils and wiring and piping and tubing and valves and solenoids and switches and coolants and heatants and inlets and outlets and throughlets and backagainlets and roundandroundincircleslets and components for which no human language had a name, all part of a system intended to convert damned souls into red energy, to extract the ethereal essence of the worst of perversion and depravity that humanity had to offer, and use it to power Hell.

Humans are strange and wonderful creatures, and many of them are born with strange and wonderful talents. Admittedly, many more are born who _think_ they have talent than actually do – anyone can satisfy themselves that this is the case by taking to YouTube, and watching clip after clip of auditions for various 'talent' shows. But the ones who have an aptitude, a natural ability that goes beyond the mere competence attainable with study and practice, their capacities range far and wide, and may seem astonishing, almost miraculous, to those not so blessed. It may be an ability to pick up a musical instrument, and understand innately how it works. It may be an uncanny capacity to play a sport, or chess, as if able to read an opponent's mind and know their next move before they do. It may be as major as an ability to perform complex neurosurgery with a comprehension of the brain beyond what medical school can teach, or as minor as being able to know exactly how long to heat the iron to get a perfect waffle every time. To anyone who doesn't have it, it looks like magic. From a certain point of view, maybe it is.

Dean may not have spent several lifetimes studying diabolical engineering, but he had a talent for machinery, seeing how things fitted together, and how they worked, or how they were _supposed_ to work, or how they _could_ work. In a different life, he might have studied mechanical engineering, and ended up anywhere from a senior faculty position at MIT to a high performance racing team. (In fact, in an alternative reality, he met his wife during an Engineering Faculty end-of-year party, where the visiting professor in chemical engineering had the audacity to draw with him in the annual drinking contest he'd won every year pretty much since he'd submitted his doctoral thesis. Despite a somewhat inauspicious and puke-smeared start, the relationship blossomed. Sam teased Dean endlessly about being domesticated, and also the fact that Ronnie kept her own name, remaining Dr Shepherd rather than becoming Mrs Winchester.) He called it being granted The Understanding by The Machine God (usually when he was teasing Sam about his baby brother's less than encyclopaedic knowledge about how to overhaul an engine).

However you described it, Dean looked into the workings of Morag, at a construction that would've sent the most talented designer of nuclear reactors running crying back to his favourite calculus textbook for some soothing differential equations to settle his nerves. He stared into the belly of the beast, and beheld the engine of Perdition.

Then, a thoughtful look on his face, The Boss of Hell turned to his Chief Engineer, and commanded:

"Snotty, hand me that wrench."

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Ameniel paused a moment, and stepped aside as another junior Herald arrived with a file, bowed to him, and headed into the small office space; the quiet hum as The Dean waged administration spoke to something deep down in his soul. Files were coming and going, reports were being checked and filed, the soaring strains of the Choir filtered in – God might not right then have been in His Heaven, but all was about as right with Ameniel's world as it could be.

Best of all, The Dean had called for a large dog basket, and insisted that Jimi Senior stay in it and not chase the Heralds.

"You sent for me, Dean?"

The Dean appeared to ignore him, his attention fixed on the screen of a laptop computer that he had procured from somewhere.

"Dean?"

"Hmmm?" The Dean looked up, and his expression became sheepish. "Oh, sorry Ameniel, I thought you were talking to my brother. Yeah, I've noticed something," Sam went on, tapping at the keys, "I was looking through the Incident Reports, and there seem to be a lot that relate to the fledglings, particularly those who have finished their formal instruction in flying, but who are still inexperienced."

"It was ever thus, Dean," Ameniel smiled, "The young learn by making mistakes."

"Well, anyway, I couldn't help but notice that quite a lot of them seem to end up heading off to the Healers after clipping the Pearly Gates."

"Oh, that," Ameniel shook his head, "It is a form of, well, a game, I suppose, played by fledglings, to see how fast and low they can fly between the spires."

"Yeah?" Sam blinked. "So, this is as a result of baby angels doing, what, practising their aerobatics?"

"I'm afraid so." He smiled in recollection. "I remember when I was that age, one time I lost a double handful of primary feathers, and I flew in circles for some time afterwards…"

The Dean lifted another file. "There are also a number of correlating reports of souls having the shi-… I mean, souls being severely startled by the fledglings zooming past overhead unexpectedly," he said.

Ameniel cocked his head in a very Castielesque way. "I don't understand why that would startle anybody," he replied. "This is Heaven. Surely angels are expected in Heaven."

"They come out of the clouds, they're flying under the radar, and, and, there's people, who have already had the shock of finding out they're dead, and they arrive here, and the next thing they know, they think they're being strafed. Under those circumstances, I think it's not surprising that they're startled." He lifted up another file. "Now, there is also this list, from the Library…"

Ameniel flinched; one of Danael's lists was never a good thing.

"The Senior Librarian keeps a number of lists," Sam intoned ominously. "Mostly of angels who have done things that annoy her."

"Sooner or later, everybody ends up on one of Danael's lists," Ameniel said gloomily. "The Michaelsword was on several of them before he even arrived here."

"Well, this one, I think she has cause to complain about," Sam went on. "According to her, there is an ongoing small but consistent number of cases of, according to this, young angels sneaking into the administrative area of the Heavenly Library, and transferring multi-variate states of their base waveforms of intent to the celestial multi-dimensions reserved for archival replication and storage of important documentation."

Ameniel's face turned grave. "Oh dear."

"Oh dear indeed. In fact, 'Oh dear' does not begin to cover it. I think that the memo she wrote me should be stored in the armoury, along with Heaven's other weapons, because it's pretty damned incendiary," noted Sam as he turned the laptop around. "Now, get this – the names on this list correlate pretty closely with the names on the list of would-be aerobatics pilots."

Ameniel blinked as, in the words of Nabiz the ifrit, the small denomination currency descended.

"Exactly," Sam pulled a face of disapproval. "So, what we have here, is a group of younger angels, who are frightening the incoming souls with their aerobatics, and when they're not doing that, they're the group who sneaks into the Library, and does the Heavenly equivalent of plant their asses on the scanner and fill up the Librarian's hard drive with the image files."

"They must be chastised," Ameniel said promptly, "They must be brought to account for their behaviour, and instructed to conduct themselves in a more appropriate fashion…"

"The thing is," Sam interrupted him, "Chastising them won't do anything to prevent the next crop of fledglings doing this – what we need is a preventative strategy…"

A short time later, a group of young angels shuffled nervously together as they were addressed by The Dean himself, magnificent and terrible in his armour and his displeasure, who showed them a most terrifying expression of disapproval as he castigated them for their foolishness. A few of them burst into tears.

However, their tears soon dried when they were later introduced to the aerobatics course set up for them in a corner of the Firmament, complete with a replica of the Pearly Gates, the only difference being that the faux Gates had large red aviation warning lights atop the spires and were made of Heavenly rubber, so that if a would-be stunt flyer did get too close there was no damage to wings, just an amusing 'boi-oi-oi-oi-oing' noise.

Just to make it more interesting, The Dean sent the Waiting soul, Jimi Senior, to join in the game.

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"Honestly, I've encountered half-rotted corpses that had warmer hands than that damned leech," Crowley complained after Ian's latest physical examination. "The least he could do is wear a pair of gloves so as not to put his patients in danger of frostbite."

"Dr Gregson is an honourable soul who fights every day to defeat the monster within, and has mentored others to do the same," replied Castiel between sniffles. "He has been generous with his time and knowledge, and a lot more compassionate than you deserve, given that you are a demon and he is from a family of Hunters. He genuinely wants to help both of us."

"Bollocks," Crowley hunched into his blankets, "He thinks he's so suave – I saw that 'honourable man' demonstrate his original accent for Sister Felicity, and don't think I didn't notice that she blushed like a teenager, let me tell you that I was born further North than he was and I could out-Sean Connery his pallid arse any day of the week… aha!" He managed a wan smile as Fic came into the sick room. "Speak of the ministering angel, and she shall appear!"

Crowley would never have gotten as far as he did as a human, let alone as a demon, if he hadn't been good at reading people. When he saw the sad smile on her face, she might as well have been written in bold underlined 50 point sans serif font.

"Sister?" he asked anxiously, "Is something wrong?"

The nun sat by his bed. "Gentlemen, I'm afraid I have some bad news. About this condition."

"What is it, Sister?" rasped Castiel. "Have you made progress in your research into this ailment?"

Fic sighed. "The answer is, unfortunately, yes, and no." She turned back to Crowley. "We still have no idea what we are dealing with, here – if we could just get some information about where it came from, how it arose, we might have a chance. We have determined that it is most likely of demonic origin, but that's all; Bobby has been tying his brain in knots, and if he can't figure it out, then I'm afraid nobody can. "

"All right, so, that's the 'no' bit," prompted Crowley, "What's the 'yes' bit? This is the part where you tell us the good news, so, what's the good news?"

"I'm afraid that was the 'yes' bit," Sister Fic continued, "It's likely origin. That's all we know about the disease agent, whatever it is. But I'm afraid…"

"Tell us, Sister," Castiel said calmly. "Whatever it is, not knowing is worse."

Felicity looked truly sad. "There is no way to sugar coat this. Castiel, your condition is not progressing, but nor is it improving. Following his most recent examination of you, Dr Gregson suspects that this may end up being a permanent condition."

"Oh, bollocks," moaned Crowley, as Castiel let out a small sigh, "That just takes the bloody biscuit, that does, you mean I'm going to feel like complete and utter shite for the rest of my unlife?"

"No," Fic hurried on, "That's just Castiel – being demonic in origin, this condition is going to be like a chronic infection that he cannot beat. Whatever passes for an angel's 'immune system' cannot defeat this, whatever it is. It won't kill him, but he won't get better either."

"Oh, well, that's all right then," Crowley looked relieved. "Kind of funny in a way, if I'm honest – look on the bright side, Clarence, your voice hardly sounds any different to what it normally does, and you won't have to gargle a glass of gravel every morning to maintain that stern and steely timbre."

"If this is my Father's will, so be it," Castiel murmured, "I shall seek Revelation, and ask Him to grant me patience and courage."

"Yes, yes, very noble, very angelic," Crowley flapped a hand dismissively, "And as infuriatingly stoic as ever. Meanwhile, with my demonic immune system, I shall just lie here, and concentrate on defeating this hideous plague. Another mug of lemon drink, with a small tot of something suitably and deliciously single-maltedly medicinal, would help my immunes to systemise, dear lady, and so if you would be so kind…"

"That's not going to happen, Crowley," Felicity told him.

Crowley blinked at her. "Whyever not? Don't tell me we've run out of the decent stuff? Oh, very well, a shall make do with a tot of whatever ghastly paint stripper Bobby has in the cabinet at the moment, although it will be a shame to taint one of your wonderfully restorative concoctions like that."

"No, you don't understand," Fic gazed at him understandingly. "I will make you a lemon drink, and see to anything else you ask for."

Crowley found it in himself to cock an eyebrow suggestively. "Anything, sister?"

She smiled at that. "Anything within reason," she qualified, "Just because I'm administering palliative care, that doesn't mean I'm free to break my vows, or any laws, for that matter."

"Oh, what a waste of a wonderful woman," Crowley sighed, "That's the Church for yo-… what?" His train of thought caught up with what she'd said. "Did you just… did you just say, 'palliative' care?"

"I'm afraid so," the nun took his hand. "Crowley, this disease, it will be a chronic condition for Castiel, but for you, it's acute, perhaps because it is demonic, and so are you. There is no easy way to say this; it is terminal. Crowley, you're going to die."

* * *

I would say 'Poor Crowley', but I'm feeling too sorry for myself. Poor me. Poor decrepit me. All those happy young things heading off to their after-gig parties, while I could barely stay awake long enough to get home, and I practically fell asleep over my cocoa. The only way I can console myself is to remember that I can now afford to buy a tour shirt without having to live on tea and toast for a week to pay for it.

Send reviews, because Reviews Are Th... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...


	21. Chapter 21

BOO!

Yes, I'm back, having spent two weeks in a distant antipodean wilderness, far from civilisation, let alone internet connectivity.

I've been to Tasmania.

The wifi is lousy, but the scenery is great.

So is the cheese.

And the cider.

And the cheese.

And the cider.

Did I mention the cider?

So, here's the next chapter – I'll get right onto the next one, as soon as I finish this bottle.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

With the air of a neurosurgeon placing the final superficial sutures after he has just implanted the experimental brain electrodes that will either a) enable his patient to walk again or b) turn said patient into a raving super-strong unstoppable homicidal maniac burning with hatred for all of humanity, Dean replaced the last access hatch on Reactor Number One. A group of demons had gathered to watch The Boss work, and were eyeing the gigantic plant warily. Two of them at the back of the group took a bet on whether he would go 'Bwahaha' when he was finished.

"Okay, we're done here," Dean announced, giving the enormous machine a final pat, "Get a couple of your asskissers up there to recouple the feed lines, and drop dampers one through five into the primary chamber – if we can do this at working pressure, we can avoid havin' to prime it from scratch." He paused. "Maybe you better send a couple you really don't like, just in case."

Snotty the Chief Engineer of Hell eyed him carefully. "She's stoon coold, Borss," he pointed out, "Ye try tae prrrrrraime 'er a' fool prrrrressurrrre, she cuid blorwback, orrrr worrrrrrse, roon awee, and ye dinnae want tae hafta deal wi' a melt-up, the paperrrrworrrrrk would be jooost drrrreadful..."

"Nah, she aint goin' anywhere," Dean replied breezily, "Not with the dampers engaged. Besides which, this will save a lot of time." He paused. "What's a melt-up?"

"I's wha' Kyoo in Rrrrr and D has theorrrised wou' harppen, if a rrrrred enerrrrgy rrreaction ge's ooutta contrrrrool," Snotty told him, "Theorrrrre'ically, it coould rrrrresoolt in the liquefied rrrremairns o' a larrrge choonk o' Heell forcin' i's way as farrrr as Oopstairrrs, and oozin' oop thrrrrough their drrains."

"Well, let's hope my baby bro is standin' by with the mops," shrugged Dean, smug in the knowledge that he wouldn't be affected by such an event and that Crowley would be absolutely ropable. He gestured at two demons. "Go on, get the fuck up there before I decide what the décor in this place needs is more demon guts strung from the ceiling." They scrambled to obey, instantly deciding that the idea of possibly being melted up was far preferable to being definitely carved up by The Boss.

Snotty had been overseeing the furnaces of Hell for centuries in Topside reckoning, long enough to see what could result from an infernal version of an industrial accident. "Per'aps we cuid considerrr waitin' tae recombobulate 'er igniterrrrs, Sirrr, we can geet verrrah guid quality woons frrrrom Jahannam noo, wha' wi' the exchairnge prrrogrrrram, their suicide bomberrrrs are joost the ticket forrr the jorb..."

Dean put a hand on the worried demon's shoulder. "Snotty, I understand that you are very good at your job, doin' the practically impossible with the practically unworkable for the definitely ungrateful, but dude, technology has moved on a bit since you were sent Down Here. Including this little thing called the internal combustion engine."

The old demon nodded. "Aye, ah've hairrd o' them things," he mused, "They soound a bi', weeell, oonsophistica'ed."

Dean smiled. A female demon swooned. "They can be, but that has its advantages. Snotty, I am gonna introduce you and your infernal combustion engine to the concept of the push start…"

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When it had become clear that Senior Librarian Danael, Senior Secretary, Archivist and undisputed Overlady of the Celestial Library and Archives, was not affected by the strange sickness afflicting Castiel and Crowley, she had emerged from her office to take up her duties once more, overseeing the running of the Library with an iron fist in an iron glove wielding her Red Pen Of Fury.

Ameniel was vaguely uneasy when The Dean announced that he was heading to the library to pay his respects. Danael was a fearsome and imposing senior Virtue, not an angel to cross: he was worried that she would not be in a hurry to receive pleasantly the individual who had been fated to rule Below, the Tainted One, the Abomination, The Boy King of Perdition, Lord Samuel, Ruler of Hell.

And yet The Dean had brushed aside his concerns, picked up a pile of files (saying he might as well do something useful while he was going) and headed for the Library. He had headed in, found his way to the door of Danael's office, knocked, and entered…

And not come out.

Ameniel had sought advice from his siblings.

"What if she has smited him?" he worried, "What if she deems him an abomination unto Father?"

"If that is the case, there is nothing we can do," Maveriel sighed regretfully, "Should she wield her ruler in wrath, it will be beyond my ability to heal him."

"Might we retrieve him?" asked Ameniel, appealing to his sister. "You are a Warrior of Heaven."

"I cannot be certain," Zariniel replied, "I am not at all confident that I could best Danael on his behalf. I recall her actions during the Rebellion, when she took up her ruler to fight alongside us against Lucifer's followers; I did not personally witness it, but there was tell afterwards that at one point she confronted the Morningstar himself, and did strike several mighty blows against him with her slide rule…"

Ameniel was a Herald, more given to wordfare than warfare, but he drew himself up, face resolute. "We must intervene," he pronounced, "Though it may be the ending of us, we must save him, in the service of Father, who granted Revelation unto Castiel that he might send The Dean unto us."

"He might've begun with The Dean," Maveriel muttered, "Why the Michaelsword was sent is beyond my ken."

"Father does work in mysterious ways," Zariniel pointed out.

"So did the Michaelsword," Ameniel conceded. "But now, we shall need a pretext – think of something that we may say needs The Dean's immediate attention, and follow me!"

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"What?" Crowley blinked, "What? Die? As in, run out of living?"

"I'm afraid so," Sister Fic told him regretfully.

"But that's… that's…" the demon let out a humph of irritation. "That's terribly inconvenient."

The nun eyed him. "I would've chosen a different word," she said eventually.

"That's because you are not a demon, dear lady," Crowley managed a small smile. "It is a pity, because I have grown quite attached to this meatsuit – despite its somewhat Elizabethan hairline, and somewhat avuncular appearance, and perhaps slightly Rubenesque waistline, I find that I have become accustomed to it. Oh well," he shrugged philosophically, "If maintaining it once it dies becomes too much of an imposition, I suppose I could go and find another one. Maybe a Scandinavian, this time, those viking types always seem to have such luxuriant hair…"

"That isn't exactly what I meant, Crowley," Fic cut in.

"…Or maybe I could offer that Trump person an upgrade to his deal, it's all his own hair, apparently…"

"Crowley, I'm not talking about your meatsuit…"

"…That Pommy twat, whatshisname, was Mayor of London, Boris, Boris somebody, I wonder if he'd like to make a deal for something…"

"…I'm talking about you, the actual _you_ , inside the meatsuit…"

"Oh, oh, I know, who was that bloke in that series, what was it called, _Playing With Chairs_ , or _Match Of Seats_ or something, and he was this leader of people who ride horses and kill each other, it had dragons in it, if I recall, dragons and incest and politics and nudity, quite a lot of nudity…"

"…The person, the identity, the self that _is_ 'Crowley'…"

"And a midget killing his father on the bog, I have to tell you, I laughed like a drain at that, although he wasn't nude at the time, just had his pants down, presumably, so that horse bloke, his name was Carl, I think, Carl Drongo, the actor was a New Zealander, maybe he'd like to make a deal for a prettier sheep, or something…"

" _Crowley your meatsuit isn't going to die but you are!"_

"…Oh, I would so love to see Moose's face when I could look him straight in the eye, and possibly even punch him straight in the face…" Sister Fic's raised voice finally cut in on Crowley's fantasy about taking a towering Antipodean host body; his voice stuttered to a halt. "What?" he whatted again.

"I said," the nun repeated, "That it's not your host body that is going to die, Crowley – it's you. Your self, the essence of 'Crowley'. Your… youness. The Individual Formerly Known As Fergus. You, Crowley, _you_ are going to die."

The demon gawped for a few moments – if Dean had been present, no doubt he would have made unkind comparisons to fancy goldfish. "But… but… I can't die. I'm a demon!"

"I'm afraid you can," Sister Felicity reiterated. "Whatever this 'disease' is, its demonicness seems to be at the root of the problem. It will make Castiel chronically unwell, whereas you, well…" she shrugged with a defeated air. "It will progress until you… cease to exist."

"But… but…" Crowley gave up whatting and got on with butting. "But... I don't _want_ to die!" He peered at her anxiously. "There must be something you can do!"

"Crowley, we still have no idea what exactly this thing is," she reminded him. "We cannot approach Hell for information, without provoking an extremely uncivil civil war. Given the lack of information about where this 'infection' came from, how it arose, I'm sorry, but there is nothing more we can do." She took his other hand

Castiel's voice cut in. "It is not entirely certain that this infection will cause you to cease to exist entirely, Crowley."

"Oh, now you chime in, Dr Pasteur," snapped Crowley, "Has Daddy Dearest granted you Revelation?"

"Not just now, no," Castiel managed a small smile, "But we know for certain that He holds out hope for your Redemption."

Sister Fic turned to the angel. "Really? Can a demon be Redeemed?"

"Generally, I would say 'no'," Castiel replied, "But Crowley did once spend some time as a new-fledged member of the Host."

"Oh, don't remind me," moaned Crowley, "It was the most terrible ordeal, Sister, I caught a nasty case of angel, and was abducted, and forced to take flying lessons, and music lessons, oh, it was just awful…" his eyes grew wide with horror. "Do you mean to tell me that I might not actually just disappear in a puff of non-existence, but I could be…"

"Returned to us," Castiel's tired face smiled again, "Returned to us, our lost baby brother coming home to us, to be with his new family in the Kingdom of our Father, for eternity."

Crowley was too horrified to what or but. "Are you saying that when this thing finally 'kills' me, I might," he swallowed, "I might become… an angel?"

Hope bloomed in Sister Fic's eyes. "Could this… Castiel, could this disease have been, you know, sent by your Father, in order to Redeem Crowley? I mean, He does have form. Murraine, boils." She peered at Crowley. "Are you your father's first-born son, by any chance?"

At the mention of the b-word, Crowley wiggled uncomfortably.

"All things are possible in His infinite wisdom and mercy," Castiel's face was serene. "If this is His will and intention, then my own small affliction is a price I will gladly pay to have a lost one returned to the glory and love of His Heavenly Domain. The joy of having you returned to us as Crowliel, an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven, will give me comfort in my own infirmity." He paused. "Gabriel will be so happy to see you, he developed quite a fondness for you, I think – if I am unable to do so, I believe that he will offer you extensive flight tuition for as long as you need it, he has always been so good with the fledglings, so infinitely patient, he is a most wonderful big brother."

Sister Fic wiped a tear from her cheek, and smiled. "I shall pray for you, Crowley," she told him earnestly, "I will pray for you, and if necessary, I will give my Father-In-Law a damned good talking to. Believe me, I know how to read somebody the riot act."

"Don't you dare!" yelped Crowley. "Don't you dare pray for, at or about me! Do you seriously think I want to be whisked away to Stepford-Upon-Cloud? They're not _normal_ Upstairs! They're so literal, you cannot have a sensible conversation with any of them – I told one of them to kiss my arse, and the most dreadful thing happened…There's so much love, and compassion, and, and, and _hugging_ , I'm feeling faint just remembering it!" He pointed accusingly at Castiel. "And he put _training wheels_ on me! I don't want you to pray for me – I want you to cure me!"

Sister Fic laughed. "Oh, Crowley, how is any mere mortal supposed to 'cure' the will of The Lord?" She patted his hand. " _Deus vult_. God wills it."

"But it's demonic!" Crowley whined, "You said so yourself, the one thing you were able to determine is that whatever this 'disease' is, it's diabolical in nature, not celestial!"

"Mysterious ways, and all that," she shrugged. "There's no point trying to second-guess The Man Upstairs, Crowley, just remember that ultimately, what He wants is for all His children, mortal or otherwise, to be happy." She stood up as Crowley collapsed with a keening moan against his pillows. "So, I can go and give Bobby and Ian the good news, poor things, they've been busting their brains trying to figure out how to fix this. Don't worry," she smiled at the wailing demon, "I'll keep the boiled eggs and toast soldiers coming until you… well, until you don't need them any more."

A number of expressions chased each other across Crowley's face: despair, horror, disbelief, calculation, irritation, hesitation, and many other words ending in –ation, until finally he finished up with resignation. Forcing himself to smile his most charming smile, he looked up at the nun.

"Er, before you go, Sister, it has just occurred to me, that is, I have just remembered, that perhaps there is a tiny little snippet of information that, due to the acute nature of my terrible affliction and the dreadful suffering it has engendered, might have slipped my mind earlier…"

* * *

Crowley takes Jason Moama as a host body. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Although I'm sure that a number of SPN fans would be agreeable, from there, it can only be a hop skip and jump to HBO…

Denizens, Lurkers, Visitors and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recall the story 'In A Flap', where Crowley did indeed catch a nasty dose of angel, and go Upstairs, where he was very unhappy learning to be an Angel Of The Lord – his first appearance unto a mortal went very badly indeed.

Meanwhile, I think Florence the plot bunny is nearing the finishing line. Go, Florence, go! Just finish this bottle first.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

For theatrical effect, there should have been ominous rumblings, intermittent jets of hissing steam, flickering sickly red lights, trickles of fluorescent condensate. But, unlike so much of Hell, Red Energy Reactor Number One was not intended to be theatrical, to impress anyone – it was made to run, and run she did, efficiently and unobtrusively, purring like a cat resting between unwary sparrows. In its own way, the quiet yet businesslike hum of Morag as she converted Damned souls to energy was as imposing as the melodramatic flamboyance of the previous generation of brimstone furnaces had been.

"Ye've turrrned 'er into a thin' o' beauty, Borss," pronounced Snotty, raising his beer to Dean as he watched the power output steadily rise then stabilise without incident. "An' the remote monitorrrrrin' and controooorl system, it's sheerrrr genius – Ah can do i' all raight from heeerrrre!"

"It is, aint it?" Dean grinned, gazing up at Morag in satisfaction. "In fact, I think we should open her up, see what she can really do." He picked up a mallet and turned to a row of demons, who were wearing vests with numbers on them and mournful expressions. "Dampers, back off slowly to twenty per cent," he snapped, whacking demons Number One to Number Five on their heads. He put down the mallet, and picked up a pointy stick, using it to poke at demons wearing numbered vests of another colour. "Feeder lines, open up to seventy-five percent."

With wincing yelps, the automatic control system scrambled to perform their designated functions.

"Tha's amazin'," breathed Snotty, watching the power output surge and plateau, "She's ne'er pu' oot so mooch! Heh heh, who knows, mebbe orn a guid daiy, yon scunner bawbag Anghaal will ge' 'is zero gees afterall."

"Zero gees?" echoed Dean, "What does a demon lord want with zero gees?"

"Oh aye," Snotty told him, "He's arlweeeeys bangin' orn aboo' it arrrrrrll the taime – he warnts i' forrrr 'is debaurrrrcherrry, Borss, wha' eeelse do demons wan' airnythin' forrrrr?"

A beautiful smile slowly bloomed on Dean's face; Remote Function Damper Regulator Number Nine swooned, whilst Remote Function Feeder Line Operator Number Four took off her numbered vest and began to fan herself with it.

Dean took up the mallet and stick, and began whacking and poking demons, barking orders. "Dampers, back 'em all off to one hundred percent! Feeders, get those regulators wound out, I want her throat wide open! We're gonna give Morag her head, and see what she can do!" As the yelping demons rushed to comply, he patted the humming machine. "Come on, girl," he crooned to her, "Show me what you got."

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When the three angels burst into the Senior Librarian's office, they weren't sure what they were going to find, but they had steeled themselves for the worst. They were expecting celestial carnage, they were expecting righteous mayhem, they were expecting to find the man who was fated to be the Boy King being Invited To Explain Himself with extreme prejudice.

They were not expecting to find Senior Librarian Verael and Sam Winchester sipping mug of coffee whilst considering an assortment of brightly coloured items scattered across her desk.

"Ah, hello brothers, sister," Verael greeted them, putting down the mug which read I'M SILENTLY MODULATING YOUR WAVELENGTHS AS YOU PROPAGATE, "Is something the matter?"

"Er…" Ameniel froze like a police officer who realises that he's just led a bust on what has turned out to be a five-year-old's tea party. "Greetings, Verael. Greetings, Dean. Er."

"Ameniel, what's up?" asked Sam. "Why the dramatic entrance?"

"Er…" Ameniel turned to his siblings. "Zariniel and Maveriel will tell you."

"I cannot enlighten you, Dean," Zariniel bowed respectfully. "Ameniel ordered me to follow him, and so here I am."

"But I also commanded you to think up a reason for entering this office!" Ameniel reminded her.

"But you did not give us sufficient time to concoct a pretext," protested Maveriel, "I am a healer. You are the Herald. You should be the one responsible for contriving a reason for this intrusion!"

Ameniel turned back to The Dean. "When you did not come back out of the Senior Librarian's office, we feared that she might smite you, on account of your being the anointed Lord of Perdition," he explained, "And so we sought to check upon your welfare. Although initially it was our intention to formulate a reason for entering unannounced first, so that we might ostensibly have a purpose to camouflage our actual intentions."

"But it would appear that our concerns were misplaced," observed Zariniel.

"And so we will leave again," Maveriel added.

"If you require it, we will confer immediately, and shall return, as soon as we have manufactured a convenient and satisfactory excuse to give you for this interruption?" Ameniel offered.

"Uh, no, no, that's fine, just, uh, just go and uh, yeah, do what you were doing. Thank you."

Sam gawped briefly as the three angels bowed, and left.

"Uh… what just happened?" he said out loud.

"Oh, you must forgive them," Verael actually nearly smiled. "Free Will is not something that comes naturally to angels. They should probably be commended for their initiative, even if they don't quite understand the finer points of 'making excuses'. But now," her eyes turned back to the items on the desk, and took on a fanatical gleam that had not graced the Senior Librarian's visage since the day she smote her elder brother with her most imposing and solid pre-electronic calculating device; she stretched out a hand and almost reverently touched the pile of small cheerfully yellow squares. "Tell me more of these men, Silver and Fry."

"Well, one of 'em invented the glue, and the other one figured out how to use it," Sam explained, "And once it got started, well, the whole range of these things took off from there. You have your basic Post-Its, they're out of patent now and available in a large range of brands, sizes and colours – from there, we got these things, flag tags – they come in a range of sizes, and colours, and you can get 'em customised with text; see, this one says 'SIGN HERE'. The great thing is, you can colour code all sorts of things, and these markers can all be removed without damaging whatever they're stuck to. If you're looking for something more permanent, there's these, self-inking stamps – you can customise these, too – or these highlighters…"

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Seeing the only available options as expiration, angelification or confession, Crowley squirmed uncomfortably. "The thing is, Sister, the thing is, well, first of all, you have to remember that I'm a demon…"

Sister Fic nodded encouragingly.

"I am, in fact, not just any old run-of-the-Pit demon, I am the King of Hell, a powerful demon, a demon's demon, a very demonic sort of demon…"

Sister Fic gave him a reassuring smile.

"And above all, I can be a very _traditional_ demon. Now, I know, given the changes I've implemented Downstairs, you might not immediately think that, but really, all I've done is find more efficient ways to do what Hell has always _traditionally_ done..."

"Yeeees?" the nun prompted.

"And ultimately, as Head Demon In Charge of the whole catastrophe, it's up to me to write the agenda, lead the troops, set the example, and generally do things that are, you know, suitably, appropriately, diabolically, _traditionally_ … demony."

"You wouldn't be you, otherwise," she observed, patting his knee.

"Of course, of course," Crowley swallowed and squirmed again. "So, with that reminder that I am after all about as demonically demony as it's possible to get, I must do something quite undemony, really, and make a confession to you, good Sister."

Sister Fic blinked. "A… confession?"

Crowley gave her a wan smile. "Indeed. You see, given my demonyness, it perhaps will not be completely surprising to you that I might have been, from a certain point of view, somewhat… economical with the truth."

The nun looked bemused. "Whatever can you mean?"

"What I mean, dear lady, is that, in imparting to you information about my situation, and this disease of demonic origin, I may have been somewhat remiss in my complete, full and unstinting disclosure of everything in know."

Sister Fic looked slightly shocked. "Crowley, do you mean to say that, while we have been trying to help you, you have… lied to us?"

"No! No!" Crowley hurried told her, "No, not at all! I have not told you any lies at all! No lies, no fibs, no porkies, no whoppers, insofar as I have described my experience and symptoms with this affliction, I have been entirely truthful, honest and straight up with you. Really, it's only because I've been so very unwell that I've been so unlike my usual wonderfully and creatively deceitful self. But…"

"But?..." Sister Fic pressed.

"The thing is, Sister," Crowley wiggled unhappily once more, "The thing is, given the compassion you have shown me, under circumstances where I have had absolutely no right to expect it, I find that I might just have neglected to give you one small, one tiny, one teensy weensy trifling little detail about this disease that has struck Clarence and myself."

"If you have anything you can add, no matter what it is, it may help us to understand it," the nun told him firmly, "So, spit it out, Crowley."

"Well, the thing is… the thing is…"

"I believe that I know what Crowley is trying to say," Castiel interrupted in his rasping voice. "And I am not at all surprised that he would be most reluctant to confess it."

Felicity frowned in confusion. Crowley looked like a dog caught with his nose in the garbage.

"Indeed, given your professional background, and given what we know about the way his mind works, I am somewhat surprised that you, Sister Felicity, have not hitherto made the same deduction yourself."

Sister Fic let out a little gasp. You mean…"

"Yes." Castiel coughed, then turned his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom on the demon. "Shall I do you the courtesy of allowing you to inform the Sister yourself?"

She turned her shocked face to Crowley. "Is this true, Crowley?"

Crowley turned a sheepish expression to the nun. "I'm afraid so, Sister," he confessed, "But you've been so kind to me, I just, well, I just didn't know how to tell you, but now, it seems that full and frank disclosure of all the facts will be necessary as a last desperate attempt to save my own skin from oblivion, or an angelic afterlife worse than death."

Sister Fic visibly composed herself. "Just tell me, Crowley," she said calmly.

"Well," the demon began, "The thing is… the thing is… he's right, you know, that feathered fool, the thing is…"

"The thing is," Castiel interrupted, "That Crowley has for a few days now been suffering from multiple furuncules upon his glutei maximi – he has what Dean would no doubt describe as boils on his ass."

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Ian put down his stethoscope and smiled at his patient. "Well, I don't pretend to know anything about imp physiology," he said, scratching the little creature under the chin whilst Phlegmgob chittered happily, "But it looks to me as if the little guy has made a full recovery."

Orgle, who had been holed up in the panic room with his imp companion since the tiny thing had developed signs of having the same disease as Castiel and Crowley, sat down heavily on the bed, making some of the springs sproing their last, and burst into tears.

"Oh, thank you, Doctor Gregson!" the fiend sobbed, as the vampire passed him a box of tissues. "I've been so worried about him – every time he sneezed himself across the room and hit the wall, I was convinced he was going to suffer terminal concussion."

"Well, it looks as though imps just have hard heads," Ian commented. "But his symptoms have all abated, he's eating well," he glanced with good-humoured resignation at the remains of the thermometer, "And he generally gives every sign of being an imp in good health. You can probably take him home, now, although if you have any further concerns, bring him back any time."

"That is such a relief," sighed Orgle, gathering up the imp, who scampered up to his shoulder. "There's a big farting contest coming up soon, an Upper Circle championship – Phlegmgob has a title to defend, but I wouldn't want him to compete unless he was completely well."

"Given his flatulence form in the last couple of days, I'd say he's in peak competitive condition," the undead doctor noted ruefully.

"I do wish there was something you could do for Mr Crowley," the fiend said mournfully. "I wonder why Phlegmgob has recovered, but he hasn't?"

"Orgle, I have absolutely no education in disease progression and treatment in any species except _Homo sapiens_ ," Ian told him. "I'd only be guessing. Maybe it's because imps are so completely diabolical, entirely borne of Hell itself, that they are somehow able to fight it off with whatever passes for an appropriate immune response. Every demon, no matter how old or powerful, was once a human. Maybe that makes a small but important difference."

"Well, we should get going," Orgle decided, "Mr Winchester might need some help with the Hierarchy, although I'm sure he's very capable, and he has Nabiz the ifrit to assist him, who is, I think, a very competent individual, even if he has an unfortunate tendency to leave scorch marks on the rugs, but the Hellhounds really have taken to him. Come on then, Phlegmgob." The imp chirruped, waved, and farted a goodbye to the doctor as it took a firm hold on Orgle's pelt. "It really does seem a pity that we can't let Mr Crowley, and Sheriff Castiel too, of course, borrow your immune system for a while."

Ian, who had been repacking his doctor's bag, stopped dead, and turned to look at the fiend. "Orgle," he began, a smile forming on his face. "I think you have just had an idea."

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The word went out, and once it did, it went through Hell like a curry through a soccer thug.

Possibly the only one who was not making plans to take advantage of the situation was Snotty; Hell's Chief Engineer was humming contentedly to himself as he rearranged the guts of Reactor Number Two into a copy of what The Boss had constructed for Number One. He paused every so often to turn and smile fondly at Morag; the great infernal engine hummed quietly, unobtrusively generating a power output the likes of which Hell had never known before. Why, she'd blown the needle clear off the Debauchometer before the dampers were even completely retracted, what they'd achieve once Number Two was back online, it boggled the mind. "Who says ye cannae chairnge the lorrrs o' diabolics, Jim?" he muttered happily to himself.

Apart from Snotty, denizens of Hell far and wide, even those Topside, made arrangements to be present for the momentous occasion. And that included The Boss.

Oh, it was a little bit tricky for Dean to arrange, but once he'd explained his plan to Nabiz, the ifrit had smiled widely, and reminded him that Hell for an individual was largely about personal perception, and that if he so ordered it, Arrangements Could Be Made.

The Boss of Hell ordered it, and so Arrangements Were Made…

It was, for Dean an otherwise unremarkable Saturday night, in a bar, Topside, somewhere in Bumfuck, Somestate. The Living Sex God was in his element, playing pool, strutting his stuff, and it wasn't long before his slow, smouldering, come-hither smile had a frisky lady of similar inclination approaching him, just waiting for an invitation to informed and consenting beautiful natural acts.

Her perception primed by his story about being in town for a few days on business, she saw the designated corner of Hell as a well-appointed hotel room, with a small squat metal box on the table that he told her was a part of his job with an experimental physics laboratory – in fact, he drawled with that wicked smile that could make panties hit the carpet at twenty paces, it was a small scale prototype, but fully functional, and if she'd care for a demonstration, he'd be happy to oblige…

He attempted to regale Sam with one more Chicks I Have Banged story later, but his brother was instantly dismissive, giving Dean a full metal jacket _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). Not that Dean really minded; he knew he'd done it, and it wasn't that often that he got to cross something off his Bucket List.

And it amused him to think that, since it was highly unlikely that that sort of international diplomacy was going on at the International Space Station, he was the only man who'd ever had sex in zero gravity.

* * *

So, Sam is introducing the Senior Celestial Librarian to stationery porn, Dean is introducing a frisky like-minded young lady to space porn, and Crowley is about to receive wound care that he may not forget in a hurry. I can only blame caffeine depletion.

The plot bunny is thundering towards the finish and a satisfying squelch, so send reviews to power her along, because Reviews Are The Entire Set Of Fluoro And/or Sparkly Gel Ink Pens On The Desk Of Life! *caresses case of pens* Yessssss, my Precioussssss, we has the prettiest lab books in the building, yesssss, we doessss...


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Crowley was no stranger to torture – a demon was the result of a human soul being twisted, mutilated, and perverted on the rack, so he considered himself to have an informed opinion on the topic. He had endured plenty on his way from deal-maker to demon, and dished out plenty himself as a newly spawned denizen of The Pit, clawing his way up the pecking order with creative ruthlessness until he finally made it to King of Hell.

It was not what could be called a pleasant job, being CEO of Hell Inc: just about everybody hated him, he had to remain constantly alert to potential coups and assassination attempts, there was a lot of hard work and very little if any thanks – he might King of Hell, but even once he'd climbed to the top of the shit-heap, he was still surrounded by turds.

One of the few bright spots in Crowley's afterlife was that, being head honcho of Hell, any torturing in his vicinity occurred to his direction rather than his detriment – after all, once you were a demon, the torturing was supposed to end (which was an argument raised frequently by those fresh off the racks who were assigned to help out in Accounting). You were tortured until you turned into a demon, then it stopped. That was The Arrangement.

Which is why he thought it particularly unfair that he should find himself in this appallingly torturous situation…

"Crowley," Sister Felicity said firmly, "Lesions such as these in a bedbound patient can be very serious."

"A purulent ulceration can rapidly progress to a chronic infection," added Dr Gregson.

"And remember, since we know practically nothing about where this disease came from, we have no idea if contemporary human therapies like disinfectants and antibiotics will work on you," Sister Fic said ominously.

"If the lesions expand, and become necrotic, then debridement of the dead tissue would be all we could do," warned Ian seriously. "Into the 1940s, medicine's only recourse to a spreading infection was resection, or amputation."

"Heh heh, amputation of the ass," chuckled Bobby, "You want to remove all the 'ass' from this chucklehead, you'll have to amputate all of him."

Crowley's head didn't chuckle one little bit as he clutched the bedclothes to his chin. "Why couldn't you keep your mouth shut?" he hissed at Castiel.

"My apologies," snuffled Castiel, "I thought you were about to tell Sister Felicity about your furuncules yourself, but were trying to tell her discreetly."

"Discreetly?" Crowley spluttered in outrage. "Discreetly? You channel The Winchester Within, tell her I've got boils on my arse, and you now have the gall to utter the word 'discreetly'?"

Sister Fic laughed. "Crowley, there is no need for discretion in medical matters," she told the demon, "It's best to get straight to the point."

"Possibly a scalpel point," grinned Bobby.

The King of Hell's face blanched. "You certainly didn't trouble yourself with discretion," he glared at the nun with the expression of a dog who was expecting a treat only to discover that he's been offered a worming tablet, "You didn't have to go and tell everybody!"

"Dr Gregson has a long clinical experience with wound care, in both humans and not-exactly-humans, and I would value his professional opinion," Sister Fic replied in a soothing tone, "And Bobby, as a Man of Knowledge, needs all the info about this disease he can lay his hands on…"

"He's not laying his hands on my arse!" squeaked Crowley.

"Don't flatter yourself," Bobby snapped back.

"What I mean," Fic cut in smoothly, "Is that anything we find out during the treatment of your lesions, no matter how minor, could be vital to solving this problem."

"You got three options here, asshat," Bobby told Crowley, "Examination, and possibly a cure – or expiration and/or angelification. Choice is yours."

Crowley let out a small whine, and pulled the blankets over his head.

"Bobby is completely right about the choice," Fic said, "I really recommend that you let us examine your glutei maximi, but ultimately, the decision has to be yours."

He peeked out from the blankets. "You won't do anything if I don't agree?"

"That's right," the nun nodded, "It's all about informed consent."

Crowley emerged from the bedding, and eyed her. "So, you won't actually, you know," he waved a hand non-specifically, "Do, you know, to my, you know, on my, you know… if I don't agree first?"

"You are my patient," she reassured him, "I am your doctor, not your jailer. I won't do anything that you don't want me to…"

Crowley relaxed visibly. "Well, that's a relief."

"…Unless in my considered opinion it's for your own good."

With that, she put one hand on his shoulder, and one under his back, and flipped him like a pancake.

A rather startled, slightly cuddly, utterly horrified pancake.

He would've protested – well, he did protest, but to no avail. He would've resisted – and he did resist, or at least try to, but the strange diabolical illness had left him sapped and exhausted, and Sister Felicity had been a police officer for many years between her medical training and finding her holy vocation – both professional settings had given her experience in dealing with people who would rather not deal with her. Having done an internship in a public hospital, she had been on the front line, dispensing wound care with extreme prejudice.

Before he knew what was happening, Crowley found himself face down on the bed with his pyjama pants rather lower than he really wanted.

"Crowley, stop fussing," instructed Fic.

"Lucifer's bum, how could you do this?" Crowley howled, "Oh, this is so embarrassiiiiiing…"

"Don't be silly," she assured him, "You don't have anything we haven't seen before… oh."

There was a moment of silence.

"God's tits," breathed Bobby. "Actually, that _is_ somethin' I aint seen before. Not that I've made a habit of lookin' at other guys'…" He let out a low whistle. "Wow, that had to hurt. I mean, look at that scar."

Crowley buried his head in the pillow. "I hate you," came the muffled protest, "I hate you all so much."

"An incidental and irrelevant clinical finding," stated Ian firmly, "Surgical excision following trauma, judging by the scar."

"Explains a lot, when you think about it," Bobby chuckled.

Crowley lifted his head. "He never mentioned it before we made the deal for the meatsuit, all right?" he snapped in pique. "I learned to do my research thoroughly after that."

"All right, Adolf," Bobby couldn't help himself, "Keep your pants on. Or not…"

With a wail, Crowley collapsed back into his pillow.

"Well, it really doesn't have any physiological consequences for a human male," Fic pointed out, "I can't imagine it would make any difference to the King of Hell. Well, provided you stick to the well-tailored suits and don't take up cycling or swimming or athletics or any of those sports that require you to wear skin-tight lycra…"

Crowley let out a noise of pure humiliation.

"Stop your whinin'," instructed Bobby, "Why not just get another meatsuit, if this one is a bit, uh, lopsided for you?"

"Because I'd have had to explain why," Crowley moaned into his pillow, "Other demons would've asked why, and they'd have found out, and they'd have laughed at me."

"They laugh at you anyway," Bobby pointed out pragmatically.

"I could never have made it to King of Hell if it had been common knowledge that I'd taken a meatsuit that was…" he flapped a hand expressively.

"Positively... singular?" suggested Bobby.

"Do you know how it happened?" Fic asked curiously.

"I didn't ask," grumped Crowley.

In the other bed, Castiel cocked his head as if consulting some inner encyclopaedia. "The literary agent to whom you refer suffered the injury in his early twenties," he announced. "It was during a particularly boisterous college fraternity party, celebrating the end of the academic year – somebody thought it would be amusing to feed liquor to the football team's mascot, a well-bred male specimen of _Capra a. hircus_ , and some of the party guests, who had also consumed intemperate amounts of alcoholic beverage, were, I believe the phrase used is 'horsing around', even if the animal involved is not actually a horse, and there was a certain amount of removal of clothing and dancing, which prompted the already over-excited animal to interpret the action as a challenge, and prompted him to charge…"

Ian blinked. "A goat?" He managed eventually, rendered unusually inarticulate by Castiel's revelations. "There was a goat? A pet goat? And they… and he… and it… really?" he peered again at Crowley's nether regions. "Yeah, that must really have hurt."

"The individual concerned suffered a major blood loss," Castiel continued, "As human male genitals are comprised of highly vascular tissue, and any injury to that region will inevitably result in…"

"Can we just get on with it?" yapped Crowley. "If it is absolutely necessary to subject me to this humiliation, might we do so with a minimum of commentary from the peanut gallery? I am a demon, thank you very much, the torture is supposed to be over already."

"Of course, Crowley," Sister Fic assured him in a brisk tone, "We are doing this to treat your lesions. Yes, lesions, I'm afraid there's more than one. Don't worry, we'll just lance these, it will only take a few minutes." Sister Fic and Ian pulled on gloves, making a series of snapping noises vaguely reminiscent of a pump action mechanism. "Now, you just try to relax."

"Relax?" squeaked Crowley, "Relax? Are you serious? Eeeeee-EEEEEEEEEE-eeeeeeee, what the hell are you doing, trying to freeze them off?"

"That's just some antiseptic," the nun told him, "Now, I'll keep you informed as to what I'm doing, but first we have to make sure that we have the area cleaned thoroughly…"

"Don't I get some sort of anaesthesia before yoOOOOOO-eeeeeeeeeeeee-OOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to let it dribble down there, oh well, never mind, it ran down your scar, nothing to freeze off there, no, I'm afraid local anaesthesia is tricky with boils or abscesses, in fact, it can make it hurt worse," Fic told him.

"I could grab your ass with my cold hands," offered Ian, waggling his fingers, "Kind of refrigerate it to numb the area."

Crowley let out a horrified shriek.

"You'll feel so much better once these are gone," Fic assured the wailing demon, "Oh, yes, these are definitely fluctuant, which means they need draining, so, oh, missed a bit there, pass me that bottle again, Ian…"

Oooooooooooooo-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGH-ooooooooooooo!"

"Okay, so what I'm going to do is use a scalpel blade to make a small nick in each one, do we have a Number Eleven blade, ah, thank you, all right, now, you will feel a little prick…"

"Heh heh," Bobby chuckled, "A little prick for the little prick with a little…"

Crowley, his face a mask of misery, lifted his face from the pillow. "Oh, Bobby, how could you make fun of me when I'm in extremis like thiiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!"

"Oh, yeah, that one was nasty, give me that gauze, thank you, now, I'll just have to make sure that the purulent matter is all drained…"

"Eeeeeeeeeeeee-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Okay, now, we irrigate the region, I'm afraid this might sting a bit…"

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAARGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Aaaaaaaand some antiseptic…"

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Hang on, missed a bit."

" **AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"**

"Right, that boil will never play the piano again."

Crowley moaned into the pillow. "Couldn't you have started with the smallest one?" came the muffled complaint, "Give me a chance to steel myself, and work up to the biggest one?"

"But Crowley," protested Fic, "That's exactly what I'm doing! So, let's move on, oh yeah, this one is nastier, scalpel, okay, now another little prick…"

" **AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"**

"Oh, yuck, more gauze please, Ian, great, yeeesssss, this one is deeper, let's see if we can…"

" **AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"**

"Just give it a push there for me, would you?"

" _ **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"**_

"God's tits, that's a disgustin' sight. And so is the boil."

"Thank you so much for that, Bobby," yelped Crowley, knuckles whitening with his death grip on his pillow, "That is doing so much to make me feel better under what I can only describe as extremely trying circumstaaaaAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"You know what's weird," Bobby went on thoughtfully, "Is that people take video of this sort of thing, and put it on the internet."

"OW! OW! OW! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOOOOOW!"

"Really?" asked Fic. "Video of boils being drained?"

"OW! OW! AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Yeah," Bobby shrugged, "Can't see the attraction myself, but to each their own, I guess."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Well, it's not immoral, it's not illegal, and it's not bad for your cholesterol," Ian pointed out. "A bit weird, perhaps, but harmless." He paused. "And it can be kind of compelling. Sometimes, there's a kind of grisly fascination, sort of, oh, wow, where the hell did all that come from?"

" **AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"**

"See? Just like that one. Better make sure it's drained properly, Fic."

"Hmmmm, maybe I could get out my phone and…"

"NO!" shrieked Crowley, tears of either pain or humiliation (or possibly both) running down his face. "Bobby, how could you? Don't you dare film my derriere and put it out there for the amusement of the hoi polloiiiiIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

"It's amazin' what technology can do now, o' course, I don't have to go to the actual computer, I can do it with my phone."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Or through the wiffy thing."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH"

"It's wifi, Bobby, 'why' 'fie'."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH" Crowley sank his teeth into the pillow. "This is all your fault!" he screeched at Castiel. "You had to go and tell them, didn't you, Mr Snitch of the Lord, a Tattle-Tale of Heaven!"

"I have apologised, Crowley," replied the Angel. "I take no pleasure in seeing you in pain. I believe that Sister Felicity and Dr Gregson are correct in that you will feel better once your lesions are drained."

"Well, why don't we find a way to take your mind off it?" suggested Fic breezily. "You wanted to keep your boils secret, right?"

"Yes! Yes!" Crowley shrieked, "Why would anybody with half a brain say anything that might result in them being subjected to thiiiIIIIIIIIIIS!?"

"Well, why don't you tell me what you were about to say?" Fic suggested. "You were about to tell me something you'd remembered about this disease, when Castiel told us about your boils. Scalpel."

"What? What?" went Crowley, looking suddenly like a rabbit in a spotlight. "No! I don't want to talk about it noOOOOOOOOw!"

"You remembered something?" echoed Ian. "Crowley, it could be important. A vital clue about the nature of this disease."

"It could be the piece of info we need to formulate a cure," added Fic. "Gauze."

"AIEEEEEEEEEEE!"

"Go on, asshat," ordered Bobby, "Tell us what you were about to say to Fic." He took out his phone. "Or I could just start filmin', to pass the time."

Crowley sighed deeply. "Well, as I was sayiIIIIIIIng to Sister Felicity here, I am, of course, a deeeEEEEEEEEEEmon, and as a demon sometiEEEEEEmes I do demony things…"

Bobby waggled his phone meaningfully.

"SoOOOOOOOOoooo, I was casting around for somethingAAAAAAAARGH demony to do, a couple of months back, aaaAAAAAAAAAAAAnd, I thought, why not, why not, why nOOOOOOOOOOt…"

"Why not what?" prompted Bobby.

"Well, thiIIIIIIIIIIngs were a bit quiet," Crowley warbled, "And so I thought, why not, you knoWOOOOOOOOOOO, why not, why not playIIIEEEEEEEE a… practical joke."

"Practical joke? Like, a prank?" Bobby scratched his head. "Demons play practical jokes?"

"Oh, constantlyEEEEEEEEE," Crowley gave him a strained smile, "They do it to meeeeEEEEEEEEEE all the time, you know, the old exploding tailor thing, how they do laAAAAAARRRRGH!"

"Okay, so practical joke," mused the old Hunter, "And who did you pick to be the butt of this hilarious jape you were plannin'?"

Crowley's eyes slid sheepishly sideways to the sickroom's other occupant.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Okay, so, practical joke bein' planned, Feathers was the target, why don't you tell us what you did then?"

"Well," Crowley swallowed hard and clutched tightly to his pillow, "I thought, hoWOWWWWWW does one prank a Rainman tyIEEEEEEEEEEpe who probably wouldn't even notiiiEEEEEEEEEEEEce he was having his leg pulled, and so I got together a teaEEEEEEEEEEEm of subject matter experts, and, and, and…"

"Nearly done," Fic announced cheerfully, "Just this one last one to go, Crowley – I'm afraid it's the biggest and nastiest of them all, so brace yourself, this will probably sting a bit."

"What did you _do_ , Crowley?" pressed Bobby.

Crowley gave him an ingratiating smile. "Well, I came up with this idea that was just meant to beEEEEEEEEEEEEE a bit inconvenient, you seeeeeEEEEEEE, just a temporary annoyance, but something went wrong, because those idiots are all morooooOOOOOOOOOOO AAAAAAAAAARGH AAAAAAAAAARGH I SET A TEAM TO DEVISE A DISEASE THAT WOULD INFECT ANGELS AAAAAAAAARGH AND THEY STARTED WITH AN ANCIENT FLU VIRUS AAAAAAAAARGH BUT THEY FUCKED IT UP AND IT MAKE ME SICK TOOOOOOOOO AAAAAAAAAARGH! **AAAAAAAAAARGH!** _ **AAAAAAAAAARGH!**_ **AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!**

There was sudden silence as the last boil was drained and the last shrieks of pain died away.

Bobby smiled grimly. "And there, ladies and gentlemen, we have it. Wish I'd put money on it."

"Neither of us would've taken a bet," snorted Fic in amusement, slapping Crowley smartly on the hip and making him yip and jump. "You're done, Your Majesty, make yourself decent."

Castiel stared hard at the demon. "I believe that my Father would be disappointed in me if I was to derive any satisfaction from your suffering," he rasped, "But right now, I hope that He will forgive me for the distinct frisson of schadenfreude I am most definitely experiencing."

Crowley let out a long, mournful moan. "Oh, that was a terrible tribulation," he groaned, giving the nun a wobbly little smile. "Oh, Sister Felicity, dear lady, I don't suppose I could get a soothing cup of tea, and maybe one of your reassuring smiles?"

"I could make you a nice hot cup of harden the fuck up," she shrugged. "I've seen five year olds having lumbar puncture done be more stoic than you. How does such a wimp hang onto the throne of Hell?"

Crowley stared at her, a shocked look on his face.

"Oh, don't try to give me puppy-dog eyes," she snapped, "I'm Sam Winchester's big sister. You, mister, are a rank amateur." She turned to Bobby. "So, do I get my Oscar now?"

"Madam, after a performance like that, you get the statue, and a star on the sidewalk," grinned Bobby.

Crowley's eyes went from one to the other. "You mean… you mean… Sister Felicity, do you mean to tell me…"

"More flies with honey than vinegar," she shrugged again. "Dear little brother Dean was all in favour of beating the truth out of you, but in the end, I think this was more effective. Oh, don't look like that," she told the King of Hell, who was wearing an expression of utter betrayal like a child who's been expecting a new bike for Christmas and instead gets a voucher to tell him that a toilet has been built somewhere in Africa in his honour, "It was just a bit of blatant lying and ruthless deceit – nothing you wouldn't have done to get a result."

Crowley drooped all over. "Well," he said in a small voice, "Now you know. If you want, I can contact the idiots who developed this disease and get them to tell you what they did, and then you'll have the whole picture, I doubt those dickheads have made any progress by themselves…"

"No need," Ian smiled as he held up a small vial of clear fluid with a greenish tint, "I'm pretty sure this will do the job."

"What is that?" asked Crowley suspiciously.

"Imp serum," the vampire doctor informed him. "Orgle's little pal, Phlegmgob? He recovered spontaneously. Whatever passes for an imp's immune system, it beat this bug. So, I collected some of his blood, pulled out the serum and, voilà. I've tested it on your blood samples, and I really think it'll work as a cure." He took a syringe from his bag, prepared a dose, then injected it into Castiel. "Passive immunity. I didn't even think of it until Orgle said it was a pity we couldn't let you borrow his imp's immune system. It's a tried and true strategy for a number of human diseases. He's quite a treasure, your Fiend Friday."

Crowley stared at him. "When did you prepare this stuff?" he asked.

"This morning," Ian replied cheerfully. "Yep, the little guy was completely well, and raring to go – he has a farting Championship title to defend."

"But, but, but, it's evening now!" squawked Crowley, "You've had this for hours, and you're only just telling us now?"

"Afraid so," Ian smiled angelically. "Of course, maybe I should keep all of this lot in reserve, in case Castiel needs another dose."

"Oh, give some to this asshole," huffed Bobby, when Crowley let out a sad whine, "Sooner he's cured, sooner he's outta my grid square and I don't have to listen to his bitchin'."

Crowley stared from one face to the next as he was given his dose of the curative serum. "But… why?" he asked in a bewildered voice. "If you had the cure prepared this morning, why would you wait? Why would you delay? Sister, why would you put me through a medically mediated enhanced interrogation like that, when you no longer needed the information?"

Sister Felicity Morgan, neé Deanna Winchester, gave him a slow, predatory smile of the sort that he'd only ever seen on a Winchester face when a Winchester was about to screw over, dispatch, or seriously inconvenience a demon.

"Crowley," she purred, "Why do _you_ think I did?"

Letting out a small sigh of defeat, he slumped back against his pillows. "I was right about you," he told her, "You are wasted on the Church. You, madam, would have made an extraordinarily terrifying demon."

* * *

Poor Crowley. Let's all feel sorry for Crowley. After we've finished pointing and laughing.

I'm not making up the toilet-for-Christmas thing; it's Oxfam, or UNICEF, or one of those organisations, where you can make a donation and they will use the money to construct a sanitary toilet somewhere in an impoverished village in Africa where water-borne disease is a chronic problem and public health infrastructure is in dire need of improvement. I do that for people for whom I am obliged to provide some sort of Christmas present when I actually don't like them very much. Some members of my family have been getting an annual African toilet for years now. I could 'buy' them a chicken or a goat, but I think that buying a toilet in their name really gets across the message, the idiom, the spirit of Christmas, and what the birthday boy wanted people to do, that is, offer useful and practical help to those who need it. It also lets them know that they give me the shits.

I think Florence is in the home straight now, so send her reviews to power that plot bunny home!


	24. Chapter The Last

...and Florence the plot bunny rounds the turn into the long home straight, go, Florence, go!

* * *

 **Chapter The Last**

Castiel adjusted his coat as he prepared to take his leave. "I must say that it is something of a relief that I am no longer feeling unwell," he said, his voice back to its usual background non-sick gravelliness, "I am at a loss as to how humans cope with the knowledge that such an illness may strike them at any time."

"Well, humans have an immune system that can usually fight off a cold or the flu," Bobby pointed out, "And as a rule, we don't have to deal with a bug that's been specifically engineered to make us feel crappy." He gave Crowley a hard stare.

"Yes, yes, you make your point," muttered the demon, straightening his tie, "As ever Bobby, you articulate your opinion clearly with a few well-chosen words." He turned a mournful gaze to Sister Felicity, who held out his jacket. "I am hurt more than angered by your cruel, callous and casual charade," he told her.

"Yeah, yeah, I feel so dreadful about it," she drawled, handing over the garment. "Boo hoo, boo hoo."

"Such brazenly deceitful and hypocritical behaviour from a woman of the Church," Crowley went on grumpily, "How you're going to explain yourself at your next confession, I do not know."

'How indeed," the nun smiled sunnily. "Technically, I've been consorting with a demon, at the very least, offering aid and comfort to The Enemy – Father Tantaro can by quite old-fashioned about the whole thing, he'd probably suggest to Mother Superior that I be burned at the stake." She paused. "Actually, Reverend Mother has suggested before now that burning me at the stake might not be such a terribly bad idea…"

"I hope you spend a week on your knees in penance," grumped the King of Hell, "On a cold floor."

"Oh, don't worry about me," she observed smugly, "My Father-In-Law will forgive me."

"That's nepotism!" protested Crowley.

"No, that's His job," Sister Fic replied breezily.

"Think of this as cosmic comeuppance come back to bite you on the ass," suggested Bobby.

"Maybe that's where the boils came from," suggested Ian, "After all, who knows whether Karma bothers to brush and floss first?"

Crowley shrugged into his jacket, and drew himself up with as much dignity as is left to somebody who has been forcibly relieved of several boils on the backside and screamed like a little bitch during the procedure. "The Eighth Commandment is interpreted in catechism to cover all violations of the truth – you have borne false witness, Sister, and it's a slippery slope, I can tell you that with professional authority. Himself takes That Sort Of Thing very seriously, apparently – you had better hope, and pray, that you never find yourself in my grid square once that squishy wetware runs out of mortality."

Bobby laughed out loud. "Do you seriously think anybody would go to Hell for hurting a demon's feelings? Get over yourself, asshat."

"There is, of course, a real, if somewhat remote, possibility that, after the death of her earthly body, Felicity will meet you again, Crowley," Castiel intoned.

"Aha! See?" Crowley yipped in triumph. "So speaks the Paper-Shuffler of the Lord, the Tax Accountant Of Heaven. It could happen! So, maybe you'd better apologise to me while you can, because if you think that police officers have a rough time in prison, you cannot imagine what it's like for a nun in Hell…"

"That is not what I meant," Castiel cut in, "I was referring to the very small, yet distinctly existent, possibility of your Redemption."

"…And the demons at the racks have had plenty of practice with religious types, they've honed some pretty interesting techniques on televangelists and child molesting hypocrites in funny dresses…" Crowley stopped mid-outrage, and turned a shocked face to the Angel. "My… what?"

"The future is not determined," Castiel offered them a small smile, "But as a woman trying to follow the teachings of The Son and do His will on Earth, Felicity will most likely find eternal peace in my Father's Kingdom – and should you be Redeemed, as my Father hopes, as indeed all of Host hopes, you too will be welcomed back to your family as Crowliel, Angel of the Lord, Messenger of Heaven…"

"Nooooooo!" wailed Crowley, "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't WANT to be Redeemed! I don't WANT to go to Heaven! I DON'T WANT TO BE AN ANGEL!"

"Full-blown Redemption, that's old time religion," Bobby grinned, "What you want don't come into it."

"Hating the sin, and not the sinner," Fic reminded him, beaming, "I always wanted to play the harp, maybe if I asked nicely I could join in your music lessons."

Crowley scowled. "I am more inspired than ever to stay top dog in Hell," he announced, "If only to avoid a fate worse than death."

"Well, it sounds like you're about as far away from Redemption as it's possible to be," pronounced Bobby, "So, why don't you make like a good little King of Hell, and smoke off back to your realm, Your Majesty."

"Your scorn wounds me," sniffed Crowley, "One day, Bobby, one day, you will realise that my friendship is something worth having."

"But today is not that day," Bobby replied equably. "So, go on, take up thy bed and walk – go and sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee."

"I've been as sick as a dog, had boils on my arse, been betrayed by a nun, and threatened with Redemption!" yapped Crowley irritably, "How much worse could come unto me?"

At that moment, Bobby's phone rang.

"Singer," he barked into it, then he smiled. "Hey, Orgle, how's Phlegmgob? Yeah? Yeah? Really? That's great! I'm so pleased for you both! Give him a scritch from me. Oh yeah, the serum worked a treat, your boss is up and at 'em, and will be back with you in just a minute. Provided Dean has left him a realm to go back to, heh heh… huh? What? He did? Full tear-down? A rebuild? Wow, well, that should shut the Hierarchy up for a while… huh? _What?_ You're shittin' me. You're shittin' me. You aint shittin' me? Really? God's tits, only that idjit… uh-huh… uh-huh… well, he don't know when to stop for his own good, and that's a fact, so I aint entirely surprised. Uh-huh, yeah, thanks for the heads up. Congratulations again for the big win." He looked up and smiled. "Phlegmgob has retained his farting title," he told them. "And Dean is on his way home, so," he waved a hand at Crowley. "Git."

With a huff and a pout that almost infringed on the Sam Winchester Bitchface™ trademark, the King of Hell disappeared.

Castiel cocked his head, apparently tuning in to Angel Radio. "I shall be leaving also, to resume my duties in Heaven," he told them, "Sam is returning to you now… oh."

Bobby sighed as Castiel relayed a small piece of information. "Never mind, we'll deal with it," he told the angel, "You got more important things to worry about, you've only just recovered, and you'll need to ease back into the work routine."

"Don't overdo it until you feel one hundred percent recovered," cautioned Ian.

"Very well. Goodbye Bobby, Sister, Doctor. Thank you again for your kindness and assistance."

With a brief _flap-flap_ he took his leave.

"Well, that was an experience," mused Sister Fic, starting to strip the linen from the beds, "Nursing a demon and an angel. I don't remember that being covered in seminars when I was a postulant."

"It really is true that you learn something every day," agreed Ian, taking out his phone, "I'd better call Ryan, make sure that the salt and burn only took out the restless spirit's remains and not half the town – for a pre-turned rugaru, he sure does have some pyromaniac tendencies."

"Uh, actually," Bobby told them, "If you could both stick around for a day or two, I'd be grateful…"

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Castiel spent a few minutes standing in his favourite eternal sunny Tuesday afternoon, then carefully slipped out. He did not make any sort of announcement as he headed back to the small space he used for his administrative duties; he was returning to his work, that was all that mattered.

The desk he used as his seat of celestial oversight looked much the same as ever: piles of files, report, memos and assorted documents littered the surface. He picked up a piece of parchment; apparently, Sam's last act as stand-in had been to draft a suitably apologetic letter to Ra, of the Egyptian Field of Reeds, for 1) Jimi Senior stealing the Sun Disc and using it as a chew toy, and 2) for the letter of apology written by his brother.

He thought he might as well as make a start, so he picked up a file; it was from Danael.

He was expecting it to contain documentation that she deemed in need of improvement – all angels of the Host were acquainted with the Senior Librarian's Red Pen Of Fury.

What he was not prepared for was a piece of parchment that was practically covered with small adhesive tags of many different shapes and sizes and colours…

Somewhat bewildered, he had just called forth a mug of coffee – it was a cheerful red mug reading _DON'T BUG ME UNTIL I'VE HAD COFFEE – I might have to smite you and get blood all over my lovely robe_ – when he heard the muted _flap-flap_ of an angel arriving. Looking up, he saw three of his siblings. And something else unexpected…

"Hello, Ameniel, Zariniel, Maveriel," he greeted them.

"Welcome back, Castiel!" enthused the other angels. "Are you recovered?"

"Yes, thank you," Castiel replied, "I am well, thanks to the efforts of Bobby Singer, Dr Gregson and Sister Felicity. It was, in the end, a ploy by the Eternal Enemy to incapacitate me."

"Oh, demons," sighed Ameniel, the way a gardener might speak of slugs.

"They are so predictable," tutted Zariniel.

"Is there no end to their schemes and plots?" humphed Maveriel.

"The instigator was suitably punished for his sin," Castiel assured them, "I shall relate all in my report, which you may peruse at any time once it is filed in the Archives. Although," he glanced down at the document before him, "Given the new system of correction alerts that Senior Librarian Danael appears to have implemented, that could take some time."

"I suggest you get hold of a legend sheet," Ameniel the Herald gave the distinct impression that he was trying not to sigh. "You will get to know the common ones soon enough. A little red one means an incorrect spelling, a larger blue one is a dangling participle, a wide green one means a problem with tense, and the yellow highlighter means that the expression is inconsistent…"

"I shall do that," Castiel cut in, eyeing the object behind them. "What is that?"

"This is," Mevariel began with the air of a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat, "A… present. For you."

The smiling angels stood aside. Behind them stood a towering cake, iced in pink, its tiers disappearing towards the ceiling. Curious, he flapped his wings, rising to hover over the very top layer.

The piping on the top tier read WELCOME BACK CATSIEL.

He descended to his smiling siblings. "What is this?"

"It is a raspberry sponge," answered Zariniel.

"No, what I meant is, what is the purpose of this confection?"

"It is a human tradition," Ameniel elaborated, "The Dean told us about it…"

"By which, you mean Sam Winchester."

"Yes, he told us that the offering of a dessert to someone returning to their workplace after an absence is performed as an indication that a person's colleagues are pleased to have them back. In his society, this is usually in the form of a cake, traditionally decorated with an incorrectly spelled message of welcome." He gave Castiel a wistful stare. "We are pleased to have you back, Castiel."

Castiel took in the gigantic cake. "This is a very large cake, brother."

The other angels gave him eloquent stares. "We missed you a very great deal, Castiel."

"And I am pleased to return." Castiel regarded the cake, and looked at the other angels' expressions. "Thank you. This is most generous of you. However, I believe that eating it all by myself would constitute gluttony, and so…"

He did what Dean would refer to as put out an all points broadcast over Angel Radio, contacting all members of the Heavenly Host to alert them to his return to stewardship of their Father's Kingdom…

… _and bring a spoon._

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It might not have been strictly true to say that Crowley was looking forward to going home – after all, it was Hell – but he did experience a certain amount of relief that the whole disastrous episode was resolved, and he was anticipating sitting down with a bottle of Craig and maybe a toady to kick with a certain sense of enjoyment as he headed back to his office. With a groan as he arrived, he dropped onto one of the plush sofas.

"Hello, Mr Crowley!" the fiend greeted him as he floated past at shoulder height. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Hello Orgle," Crowley managed a small wan smile. "I suspect that the correct answer to that question is somewhere between 'yes' and 'no'." A bottle of Craig drifted past, and he grabbed it out of the air. "I have been traumatised in ways that The Pit cannot begin to replicate, although I wonder if I might speak to them on the floor down there, share some of my valuable and painfully acquired insights into the nature of…"

He blinked, and his brain caught up with his arrival.

"Er, Orgle," he began carefully, in the voice of a man who was out for a stroll and has suddenly realised that he's strolled right into the middle of a mine field, "I've just noticed now, mate, that you are floating in mid-air." He paused. "As was this bottle." Another pause. "As, in fact, is this couch. With me on it."

"I'm not exactly 'floating', Mr Crowley," replied Orgle, bobbing gently back in the other direction, "That would imply that I was surrounded by a fluid that was of a greater density than myself."

"Right, right, my mistake," nodded Crowley, "So, technically, not floating, but in appearance, Orgle, in _appearance_ , you _appear_ to be floating in mid-air. Like this bottle. And this sofa. Now, the reason I mention this is because when I was last here, there was no floating in mid-air, technical or apparent, taking place. And, call me a nosy parker, but I really would quite like to know what's going on."

"Well," began Orgle, "You know how Mr Winchester was here, not Mr Winchester, but Mr Winchester, well, Mr Winchester took a keen interest in Engineering, and the problems they've been having with demands on the Red Energy System, and he rewired Reactor Number One while he was here, and…"

Crowley sat up suddenly. This had the unfortunate effect of propelling him from the couch, and sending him drifting gently towards the ceiling. "What? Who let Squirrel mess with the…aaaargh! Hey! What the hell does that sofa think it's doing?"

"Equal and opposite reaction," replied Orgle, pushing off from a wall and gliding past to steer the sofa carefully back to the floor. "You applied a force, and so the sofa moved, of course, it moved less and more slowly than you, because of its greater mass and therefore greater inertia."

Crowley made desperate swimming motions to no avail; he bumped none too gently into the ceiling. "Ow! Bollocks," he muttered, "Who the hell let Squirrel mess with the power plant?"

"Nobody let him, Mr Crowley, he was The Boss at the time," Orgle pointed out. "Anyway, maybe 'rewire' is not the right word, 'rebuild' is probably more accurate, so, Engineering has been putting out more power than the system has ever produced before, and so…" He pushed off from a wall again, and executed a surprisingly graceful somersault for a creature that was ten feet tall and built like a steroid-abusing Kodiak bear.

Crowley let out a groan. "Oh, who the fuck decided that zero gravity was a good idea?"

"Well, Duke Anghaal has been demanding it for quite some time," Orgle reminded him, "And The Boss thought it might be fun, too, and to be honest," he performed another acrobatic move, all his mouths smiling, "It really has been terribly amusing, once you get the hang of it."

"Great. Just great." Scowling, Crowley gingerly gave himself a push, which sent him rocketing head-first into the sofa, where he let out a strangled yelp as he clutched at the upholstery.

"It does take a bit of getting used to," Orgle commiserated, "Because once you start moving, there is no downward force to slow you until you hit something more solid than you."

"That's very useful, Orgle," came the muffled reply. Crowley spat out a mouthful of cushion, and carefully manoeuvred himself into a sitting position. "And how reassuring to know that the couch is more solid than me. How strangely comforting." He opened the bottle he'd been clutching like a security teddy, and upended it. "Oh, bugger, Orgle, could you get me a straw?"

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Dean lay unprotesting as Ian finished examining him – the fact that he couldn't even find the energy to tell the vampire to fuck off was a testament to just how bad he was feeling.

"It's a cold," Ian assured Bobby as he put away his stethoscope, "It's a nasty one, yes, but it's not influenza, demonic or otherwise."

Sam made a noise of disbelief around the thermometer sticking out of his mouth. His big sister shushed at him.

"Are you sure?" complained Dean with a sniffle, "I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

"No, just a virus," Ian assured him.

"If you had actual flu proper, you'd be worse," Sister Fic told him, taking the thermometer from Sam's mouth, which left him free to pull an unhappy pout. "The fever would be higher, for a start." She passed a box of tissues over.

Dean took a handful, and honked into them. "And that's supposed to make me feel better, is it?"

"No, what will make you feel better is a few days of bed rest, and plenty of fluids," pronounced Ian. "And before you ask, by that I mean non-alcoholic fluids."

"Undead asshole," muttered Dean, following up with more coughing.

With an unhappy noise, Sam pulled the bedclothes over his head. "Crowley got booze in his lemon drinks," came the muffled complaint.

"You can have a hot toddy tonight," Fic stipulated, "Provided you have something to eat first."

"Pair of idjits," griped Bobby gruffly, "By now you should know better than to run yourselves into the ground like this – overworked and overtired, in the end, it always catches up with ya."

Sam's tousled head and bleary face popped out from under the blankets. "But there was so much to do," he protested, "And I felt like I was really making progress, Senior Librarian Danael was right on board with the stationery update, and I think we might have made a difference to the delinquent fledgling problem…" he broke off coughing, then let out a moan and collapsed back onto his pillow.

"Zero gees, Bobby," Dean snuffled and coughed, "Zero gees! Once I'd started rebuilding Morag, I couldn't leave her until I'd made her as good as she could be, and after that, zero gees! A once in a lifetime opportunity! I'll never get the chance to have frisky funtimes in zero gravity again, I had to take full advantage while it lasted!"

"Semelparity," mused Ian, shaking his head in bemusement. "Unreported in mammals. I should write you up, and publish."

"Semel... what?" Dean attempted to give the vampire a ferocious glare, which was somewhat spoiled by his red eyes, red nose and pale skin. "If you're accusin' me of some sort o' fetish, you fugly freak, let me tell you I aint…" he was interrupted by an explosive sneeze.

"Semelparity," repeated his big sister, rolling her eyes. "It's a reproductive strategy, seen amongst several species of marsupial mice. They mate repeatedly during the breeding season until the male's immune system crashes, and they die. They screw themselves to death."

"It'll never happen," rasped Dean, "The Living Sex God cannot be sexed to death."

"I don't want you sexed to death," sighed Sam, "I just want you too tired afterwards to tell me about it."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The honk of a horn from the yard made Ian look up. "That'll be my ride," he noted, picking up his bag and rising to shake Bobby's hand, "They're all yours."

"Thanks, I think," Bobby chuckled.

"We've got this," Fic assured him, wringing out a washcloth in the basin on the side table and running it over Sam's face while he let out a whine like a sick toddler, "Go read your pyromaniac apprentice the riot act."

"I'm not a damned baby!" Sam complained listlessly.

"You sure as hell sound like one," observed Bobby. "Behave yourselves, and maybe we'll make you something for lunch."

"I don't suppose a hamburger would be on the menu?" asked Dean without much hope.

"I'll make up some tomato rice soup," offered Sister Fic as she dropped Sam's washcloth and picked up another one from Dean's night stand, "Provided you behave yourself."

"Knock it off!" Dean came perilously close to whining too as he attempted to bat her away, "I don't need that, I'm fine."

"Yes you do," she replied firmly, "You're running a temperature, and this will make you feel better."

"Bite me."

"You perv, I'm your sister!"

"Then shove your washcloth, Sister sister."

"Be careful what you wish for, little brother."

Dean was about to make a statement to the effect that if she really cared about him and really wanted to cool him down, she'd bring him a beer, when there was a muffled _flap-flap_ noise.

"Hello, Dean."

"Gaaaaaaaah!" Dean yelped as Castiel materialised sitting on the edge of the bed. "Oh, fuck, Cas," he moaned, letting his head fall back to the pillow, "The whole personal space thing is just so much white noise for you, aint it?"

"Hello again, Castiel," Sister Fic greeted him more politely, "What brings you back here?"

"It came to my attention that Dean and Sam were unwell, as a result of their efforts to assist during my recent illness," the angel replied gravely. "And so, I am here to assist during their recovery."

"Awesome," Dean let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Cas, you're a dude." He found a tired smile. "But I'm still gonna hold out for the tomato soup afterwards. Bonus is, I'll be able to taste it. So, make with the mojo, and…"

"Regretfully, I am still recovering from my own recent bout of diabolic influenza," Castiel said in a disappointed tone. "My grace, my 'mojo', is not quite fully recovered just yet."

Sam looked confused. "But, if your grace isn't up to killing off nasty colds, how do you propose to heal us?"

"I did not propose to heal you," Castiel pointed out, "I said that I am here to assist during your recovery." He gave Fic a small smile that was almost shy. "And so I am here to offer my assistance to Sister Felicity and Bobby in their ministrations, to care for you and alleviate your symptoms, until you are able to recover naturally.

Dean's eyes widened. "Huh?"

Sister Fic burst into a huge smile. "Oh, Castiel, that is so kind of you," she gushed, "Bobby has the yard and his work helping other Hunters to attend to as always, and I'm just so busy with these two, run off my feet, it will be such a relief to have your help."

Dean's eyes bugged even wider. "What? Er, you know, Cas, I appreciate the thought, dude, but you don't have to…"

"I know I do not have to," the angel cut in, giving Dean the Eye Sex Stare Of Doom, "But I want to. As you were so assiduous in helping to look after me when I became unwell, without being asked, you were attentive to my welfare, fetching medication and blankets, and soothing drinks, and comforting food…"

"There was sponging," Sam added helpfully, "I saw, there was definitely compassionate brow-sponging."

"Indeed," Castiel continued earnestly, "Your only thoughts were to help me. You acted as a true friend to me, Dean. And now, I am here to do the same for you."

Behind the angel, the expressions of pure evil that formed on Sam and Fic's faces would have been more at home on demons rather than a Hunter and a nun.

"Oh, you know what he's like, Cas," , "Thinking of everybody else except himself, he just can't bear to let himself be helped, by now you should be familiar with the he-man act. Really, deep down, he'd be so happy to have you help."

"I am glad I am able to offer succour," stated Castiel. "Sister Felicity, how may I assist?"

She proffered the basin and washcloth. "He's running a fever," she told him with a perfectly straight face, "And it's making him so uncomfortable…"

"No it's not!" yipped Dean, clutching the bedclothes to his chin.

"Oh, Dean, why do you have to be so stoic all the time?" sighed Sam, "He's been so uncomfortable with it, Cas, he was tossing and turning all night last night, he was so hot, he was practically panting."

"No I wasn't!" Dean protested.

Cas gave Dean the Eye Sex Stare Of Diagnosis. "Your sister is correct," he pronounced, "You are running a fever. Sponging with tepid water will make you more comfortable."

"He's right, Dean," sighed Sam, as Felicity gave him a doting smile and tenderly wiped his face. "Aaaah, I feel better already."

"Now, just wait a minute," began Dean, but he was being triple-teamed by two siblings and an angel.

"I am familiar with what Sam calls your 'he-man act'," Castiel intoned, dunking the washcloth in the basin and wringing it out, "And recognise that you feel compelled to offer token resistance."

"It's not token!" squeaked Dean, "It's not at all token, it's totallyyyyyEEEEEE!"

Even a non-sick Dean would never be a match for the angel in any physical contest; Castiel grabbed the bedclothes and whisked them down efficiently. "Having established that you are a self-sufficient individual, you may now cease resistance."

"Who the hell are you, Castiel of Borg?" Dean almost wailed.

"I don't understand that reference," the angel said matter-of-factly. "Please remove your shirt."

"Like hell, I will not stand for havin' my brother and sister teach you to be some sort of pervAAAAAARGH!"

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Having stood at the door to wave goodbye to Ian and his sidekick Ryan, Bobby headed back inside, but paused at the bottom of the stairs when he heard voices coming from the Winchesters' room.

"Don't worry, bro, it was an old shirt that was about to fall apart by itself anyway."

When you're done sponging, you can apply some of this, it's Vicks, here, catch."

"Thank you Sister, I shall do that directly. As soon as I have finished with this."

"Aaaaaaaargh!"

"Dean, this will go more quickly if you will stop trying to pull the bedclothes back up."

"Aaaaaaaaargh!"

"Dean, do not be foolish – I believe the expression appropriate here is 'You do not have anything I have not seen before', remember that I raised you from Hell and returned you to physical form and mortal life."

"Aaaaaaaaaaargh!"

"You'd better rub some Vicks on his chest, too, Cas, he's got a really, really nasty cough."

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Dean, please try to hold still, this is for your benefit."

"Yeah, bro, you'll make your aches and pains worse. He's been complaining that everything hurts, you know, groanin' all night like a ninety-year-old with turbo-charged arthritis."

"If that is the case, I shall procure an oil blend with a component of soothing aromatics such as eucalyptus and clove – these things will not cure a cold, but massage with such topical ingredients can be very useful in the relief of physical symptoms associated with a viral infection."

" _AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"_

Idjits, thought Bobby, I am surrounded by idjits. From Above, from Below, from Right Here. Wonder what I did in a previous life.

Shaking his head at the sheer idjitry of which Creation was capable, he headed for the kitchen to start collecting the ingredients for tomato rice soup.

 _ **THE END**_

* * *

Wait for it... wait for it... wait foooooor iiiiiiit...

SQUELCH

And another Jimiverse plot bunny gets stomped, with some sniffly snuffly sicky Winchesters to finish off, because for some reason certain Denizens like That Sort Of Thing. We say farewell to Florence, who was not the most talkative of plot bunnies, but she got over the line in the end, which is what matters in this day and age where Everyone Is A Winner and you get a medal just for participating...

Send your reviews and I shall bunch them together in an attractive vase for Florence's funeral, and then possibly a visit from a certain van, which hasn't graced the pages of the Jimiverse for some time now.


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